


Scar Tissue

by funnierinpylean



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Angst, Bartenders, Bottom Bucky, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes: Secret Star Wars Nerd, Clint Barton Is a Human Disaster, Depression, Disability, Hero Worship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Slow Burn, Top Steve, Unhealthy Relationships, Walk Into A Bar, War Veteran Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 13:59:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 59,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7108042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/funnierinpylean/pseuds/funnierinpylean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky Barnes is stuck. He bartends at what might possibly be the worst, most depressing bar in all of New York City, he lives in a shithole apartment which he can't make rent on, and he drinks himself to sleep every night. His best friend Natasha thinks he is suffering from trauma related to his two tours of duty in Afghanistan - he doesn't agree with her, but knows that <i>something</i> is wrong. </p><p>Everything changes the day Steve Rogers walks back into his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Steven Fucking Rogers

**Author's Note:**

> This Bucky is probably the closest I've ever gotten to writing about myself -- and that's been very hard. I hope y'all get something out of this story; I know that the process of writing it has been very theraputic for me. 
> 
> A note about the bar in this story: it and its patrons are based off of real-life experiences I had and real people I met when working as a bartender at a shitty dive bar. Names and any identifying descriptions have been changed. If anything, the bar in this story is slightly classier than the bar I worked in.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky Barnes' life is going nowhere. That's when Steve Rogers walks in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific trigger warnings for this chapter:
> 
> There is a scene where Bucky gives Rumlow a blowjob for rent money. It's definitely not consensual. 
> 
> One of the bar patrons says something filthy about the Obama daughters. (This is ripped from real life; one of my patrons actually said this.)

Bucky wrings out his dishrag and grimaces at the dirty brown beer water that trickles down the drain. He squeezes out some handsoap onto the rag and rubs the soap into the fabric, washes it out under running water, hoping that he’s managed to disinfect the rag somewhat. He sighs. How many times has he told Ivan to buy new rags for the bar? Ivan seems to have an addiction to not listening to Bucky when he says important things.

“Kid, I ordered a beer ten minutes ago,” says Joe, with barely concealed irritation.

“More like a minute ago, Joe,” says Bucky, with a patience he does not feel. “And Leroy spilled beer; give me a moment to clean it up before it dries and gets sticky and this place gets overrun with ants.”

“You mean more overrun with ants,” mutters Janine, and Bucky wants to agree with her, but says nothing.

“All right, but just know that I can always take my business elsewhere, if I have to wait ten damn minutes for a beer,” says Joe, imperiously, and Bucky wants to throw something. Joe is a decorated war veteran, a two time purple heart winner, a POW who served in Vietnam, a man who lost his legs in combat and gets around by motorized wheelchair, and in this moment, Bucky feels like he could legitimately punch him in the face.

“Here’s your damn beer,” mutters Bucky, sliding a frothy Budweiser over to Joe. He takes the rag to the puddle that Leroy left when he grabbed his latest beer. It does a lousy job of soaking up the mess, but it’ll have to do.

“So then I says to my landlady: ‘honey, if you want your rent on time, fix the damn hole in my wall!’” says Janine, shaking slightly as she speaks, the way she always does.

Bucky grunts, to show Janine he’s listening to her. He’s barely hanging on, to tell the absolute honest truth. On the list of things he cares about, Janine’s troubles with her landlady are at the very bottom.

“I mean, what would you do, Buck, if there was a massive gaping hole in your kitchen wall? Pay rent on time? Anyway, that old bitch charges too much anyway. Serves her right if I’m short this month.”

A loud crash. Leroy has fallen over. He is lying on his back by the jukebox as it continues to belt out George Clinton. His legs are in the air as he tries to right himself, like a turtle, rocking on its shell. Bucky curses, and goes to help him up.

“What the fuck did you take, Leroy?” he asks, panting with the effort of pulling him up. Leroy Allen is a tiny man — thin and wiry like a reed, but he goes dead weight when it’s time to pull him up.

“Nothin’,” he grunts, grinning in a manner which leads Bucky to believe that he very much did take something. “Just booze,” he says.

“Take that shit outside, don’t ever bring it into the bar,” warns Bucky, for what feels like the five hundredth time.

“What shit?” drawls Leroy, innocently. His accent stretches out the word “shit”; turns it into a two-syllable word. Leroy staggers under his own weight, and it’s all Bucky can do to not fall down with him. Bucky pulls Leroy onto a bar stool. “Sit here,” he orders. “And no beer until you sober up a little.”

“Good luck,” says Joe, laughing. He’s been watching the entire exchange from his place at the other end of the bar, amusement shining on his face. “That kid won’t dry out until the next presidential administration.”

The drunk sitting next to Joe slurs out something that sounds very much like “Fuck Obama”.

Everyone ignores him.

Bucky places a glass of water in front of Leroy, who is drooping dangerously on his stool. “Drink this,” Bucky orders. He stares at Leroy menacingly until Leroy is shamed into taking a sip. Bucky feels a grim sort of satisfaction at the success of his intimidation tactics. His long hair plus the metal arm — Bucky knows he can look like a scary motherfucker, when he wants to.

“Hey Bucky, top me off, would ya?” asks Janine, who is shaking worse than ever.

Bucky complies; slides a fresh Budweiser towards her. “Three dollars, Janine.”

Janine flinches. “Bucky, can I borrow some money, sweetie?” she asks in a high pitch, voice wavering.

“Are you fucking serious?” Bucky blurts out, forgetting himself. He leans on the bar, eyes flashing with anger. “You never fuckin’ tip, and you want to borrow money for booze? From your _bartender_?”

Janine’s watery eyes somehow become more watery; they positively shine with unshed tears. “It’s just been a really hard month, Buck,” she says, taking a sip of her not-yet-paid-for beer. “You know I’m good for it.”

Bucky softens, just a tiny bit. “Next time you hit the numbers, I expect you to fucking tip me, Janine,” he says, gruffly. He turns and takes out three dollars from his tip jar; places it in the register. He tries not to wince at how a loss of three dollars has halved his tips. He’s been working almost three hours for these goddamn cheapskates.

How much longer can he continue on like this?

  

* * *

 

Bucky turns the key to his apartment and the door swings open. He empties the contents of his pockets on the coffee table (also known as his table — the one and only), sits on the lumpy couch that also serves as his bed, and counts the singles. Twenty six dollars; the final count. That, plus the three twenty-five hourly that Ivan pays him is…. not enough for this week. And rent’s due soon.

“Fuck,” says Bucky, and leans forward, rubbing his eyes. He’s going to have to get creative with Rumlow this month. He’s got a pretty good idea of what that’s going to entail, and he doesn’t really want to think about it, not quite yet.

He pulls out a bottle of bourbon from underneath the table and swigs from it directly; doesn’t even bother with pouring it into the rocks glass he stole from the bar. When Bucky is sufficiently buzzed, he pulls out a battered iphone from his back pocket; scrolls through the texts he’s been ignoring all day.

The first message is from some chick who Bucky fucked once in the bar bathroom; she wants to know what he’s doing tonight. Bucky moves to the next message.

The next series of texts are from Natasha. 

 

> _Why didn’t you show up yesterday? I waited for you._
> 
> _You could at least call._

“ _Fuck_ ,” says Bucky again, and runs his hands through his hair. He feels guilty as fuck. He was supposed to meet Nat at hers yesterday, they were going to work out together. His one day off, and he had been too fucked up to get out of bed. All day, he had been half expecting Nat to show up at the bar, and give him a talking to. (He knew she’d never step in there, of course. Far too low rent a place for Natasha Fucking Romanov, but still.)

He’d have to deal with this situation sooner rather than later, he supposes. He texts back: 

 

> _Sorry. Was sick yesterday. Will make it up to you tho._

and hopes it will do the trick, though he knows that she will read right through the message and see it for what it is, a miserable excuse. He also knows that nothing in the world he could possibly do could really make it up to Nat for yesterday — he can’t buy her a meal, the way normal friends do, can’t take her out to fucking brunch as an apology. Not with the kind of tips he’s been getting, lately.

He feels a pang in his stomach that he recognizes as hunger; he looks at the twenty six dollars crumpled on his table and sighs. Making a decision, he grabs five of those bills and heads out the door. He can’t afford to order pizza delivery, which is what he really wants, so corner store sub will have to do.

 

* * *

 

He takes a deep breath and pushes the door open to Rumlow’s office. Rumlow’s sitting at his computer, watching porn, of course. The office is filled with the sounds of porn star screams and the slap of skin on skin. Rumlow holds up one finger as Bucky approaches his desk; he continues working on whatever report he’s filling out at the moment, and Bucky wants to roll his eyes so bad. Rumlow isn’t even jacking off, the fucking freak. He’s just got redtube on in the background as he works. Rumlow takes his sweet fucking time minimizing the window; the sounds of pornography fade away, and he turns to Bucky with a snakelike smile on his face.

“Bucky,” he says, false cheer in his voice. “What can I do for you today?”

“Hey Brock. Wanted to talk to you about this month,” says Bucky, trying to cut to the chase. He hated the runaround this dude always gave him; the pretense of friendship that Rumlow tried to keep up, though they both knew the truth.

“Oh dear,” said Rumlow, voice dripping with false concern. “Problems at work, Bucky?” he asks, eyes going round like saucers.

“Kind of. Truth is, I’m short this month, Brock,” says Bucky, heart beating fast.

“Oh dear. Oh _dear_ ,” says Rumlow, stretching this out, clearly enjoying himself. He leans back in his desk chair. His legs are splayed at an obscene angle, and Bucky is sure it’s intentional, because Rumlow wants him to see the bulge in his pants. Bucky trains his eyes on Rumlow’s face. He won’t play this game until absolutely necessary.

“How short are you, Bucky?” asks Rumlow, kindly.

“About two hundred, man,” says Bucky, resolutely, trying not to feel sheepish.

“You know that if you just stay away from the booze, if you hadn’t spent all that money on liquor, this wouldn’t have happened,” said Rumlow, benevolently.

“I know, Brock,” says Bucky, quietly. Bucky breaks out into a cold sweat. He fucking _hates this_.

“Come here,” says Rumlow, crooking his finger, and Bucky goes, as if tied to a string that Rumlow is pulling. He stands in front of Rumlow’s chair, in between Rumlow’s splayed legs, uncomfortably close, but again, Bucky knows how this game is played. Rumlow reaches out and touches Bucky, rubs his hands up and down Bucky’s arms, tutting like a mother who is scolding a son.

“You’re too skinny, you know that?” says Rumlow. “What are they feeding you, down at that bar?” he asks, but Bucky knows it’s a rhetorical question; Rumlow doesn’t really want Bucky to talk. Rumlow stands; the office chair rolls away. They’re facing each other. Bucky is just a little taller than Rumlow, but Rumlow is bigger; beefier.

“Down,” says Rumlow, and Bucky sinks to his knees automatically. Rumlow unzips his fly, fingers moving fast, and the next thing Bucky knows is that he is being stuffed full of cock; salty, unwashed cock; it is all he can do to loosen his jaw and let Rumlow fuck his mouth.

“Good boy,” grunts Rumlow, hands fisted in Bucky’s hair. “That’s a good boy,” he says again, pushing himself deep into Bucky’s mouth, hitting the back of his throat. Bucky tries not to gag; he clutches Rumlow’s shirt for support and Rumlow makes a sound of approval.

Rumlow makes that tell-tale grunt and he is spilling, hot and bitter, into Bucky’s mouth. Bucky waits until he’s done thrusting, until Rumlow has stilled and his dick has stopped pumping fluid. Bucky spits on the carpet and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand — he feels like retching but knows he can save it for when he leaves this fucking office.

Rumlow tucks himself back in and Bucky stands, a stony look on his face.

“So, we good?” says Bucky, roughly.

“Next month’s rent is $800,” says Rumlow, smoothing his lapels, adjusting his cuffs. He sits back down in his chair, and turns towards his computer. Bucky feels his stomach drop —  his usual rent is only $700, but he knew it was too easy, he’s never been short a full two hundred before, and he ain’t pretty enough for a $200 blowjob.

“Fine,” says Bucky, low. He tries to keep the anger out of his voice, and he knows he’s failed.

“You’re getting a hell of a deal, for this part of Brooklyn,” says Rumlow, looking at Bucky, sternly. “I wouldn’t complain, if I were you.”

“I’m not complaining.” says Bucky, quickly. “I’ll see you next month, Brock.”

“Buh-bye, Bucky,” says Rumlow. The asshole is already pulling up redtube, and Bucky leaves the office to the sound of heterosexual fucking.

Once outside, Bucky takes a huge breath of the fresh air; air as fresh as it gets, in this part of the city. He can still taste Rumlow in his mouth; he heads to the nearest bodega and buys a bottle of water; washes his mouth out and then drinks the entire thing in one sitting, drinks until he can’t taste semen anymore.

He sits on someone’s stoop, wondering if some gentrified asshole is going to lean out the window of their brownstone and tell him to move along; thankfully, no one does. The sun beats down on him, and he feels his pocket buzz. _Natasha_ , he thinks, pulling his phone out.

 

> _Come over after your shift today, let’s talk._

Bucky groans. Nothing about how he’s an asshole, nothing about how he needs to make it up to her. It’s Nat being kind and serious and kind, which means he’s fucked.

An alarm buzzes on his phone — it tells him that he’s got half an hour to book it to the bar for his shift. He could take the bus, but that’s $2.75 he can’t spare. He starts walking in the direction of his bar.

 

* * *

 

Bucky rings the doorbell, and Nat opens the door; she silently steps to the side to let him in. Bucky slides past her. He stands in front of her, hands shoved in his pockets, hunched over.

Natasha looks at him without warmth, as if appraising him. “Shower,” she orders, and Bucky is secretly glad. Mad Max spilled a pitcher of beer on Bucky today — he knows what he smells like.

Bucky lets the water run down his scalp, into his hair. He soaps up everywhere but his metal arm, which doesn’t need soap, but is waterproof, thank fuck. He knows he should be grateful to Tony Stark for turning him into a cyborg — complete with a revolutionary neurally-linked prosthesis, his reward for volunteering to be Stark’s test case — but he doesn’t like the attention the arm brings him. Makes it harder to slink into the shadows, when you look like the depressed offspring of Robocop. He makes a deviation from his normal routine and actually uses shampoo on his hair instead of soap, the way he would have if he were home. He tries very hard not to enjoy the sensation of the lather, and fails.

His thoughts turn to money. He wishes he could switch shifts with Ali; he could really use some more night shifts, but Ali’s been there longer, has more of a pull with the customers. At least he’s got Friday and Saturday this week. That should help. Today’s pull was minimally better than yesterday’s, but still not enough to live off of.

Bucky sighs and turns off the water as it starts to run cold. He dries himself off with one of Nat’s extra fluffy towels, and walks into the living room naked, using the towel to dry off his ears. Natasha doesn’t blink an eye at Bucky’s nudity — not like she hasn’t seen it a million times before — instead points him towards a freshly laundered stack of clothing. It’s the clothes that Bucky left last time they did this, and Bucky feels a pang of guilt for being such a fucking mess all the time.

Bucky silently slides on the underwear and the black skinny jeans (shoplifted from H&M, because he’s poor, but he’s stylish, goddammit), and the red henley (definitely a goodwill purchase), and collapses on the couch next to Nat. It’s so, so much more comfortable than his.

“What have you eaten today?” she asks him, quietly.

“Not much,” says Bucky. His first instinct was to lie and say he’s fine, he’s had enough to eat, but all he’s had is ramen, which was his breakfast.

“Stay here,” Natasha orders, and she disappears into the kitchen. Bucky throws his legs up onto the couch and lets himself doze for a bit, until Natasha returns with a salad and sandwich. Bucky throws himself onto the food, devouring it embarrassingly fast.

“Thanks,” he mutters, when done. He’s aware that Natasha has been watching him eat, a worried look on her face. Bucky hates that. He knows it comes from a good place, but he’s not super comfortable with people staring at him, and doesn’t like to worry the people he cares about.

“You’re disappearing before my eyes, радость,” Natasha murmurs. She reaches out to stroke Bucky’s still-drying hair, and Bucky tries not to flinch at the human contact. Nat seems to realize that touch is not what Bucky needs at the moment (thank _god_ , Bucky thinks to himself), and withdraws her hand.

“Have you been to the VA yet?” she asks, voice returning to its normal, busybody tone.

“No,” grunts Bucky.

“Why not?” asks Nat, who is clearly resisting the urge to reach out and touch Bucky again.

“There’s nothing wrong with me, come on, Natasha,” says Bucky, irritated.

“You’re depressed,” says Nat, flatly. “Depression is real. Trauma is real, PTSD is real. You’ve never dealt with what it means to be disabled. You haven’t dealt with the war.”

Bucky snorts. _The war._ Nah, that wasn’t it. Afghanistan had felt natural to him, felt like he belonged somewhere. Something about the ritual of soldiering was deeply appealing to him. He had loved his job, had been good at his job. It had all been gravy until that fucking IED had taken his goddamn arm and rendered him ineligible for a third tour.

“How’s Clint?” asks Bucky, determined to change the subject.

Natasha sighs. “Clint’s fine,” she says. “Clint’s away. Visiting his brother in Iowa.”

“Barney? Why’s he visiting Barney?” asks Bucky, surprised.

“Barney broke his leg, in like, four places. He doesn’t have anyone, so Clint’s gone out to help for a week or so.”

“That’s nice,” says Bucky, yawning. “Why doesn’t Barney come out here?”

“Because they hate each other,” says Natasha, with a wry smile on her face. “A week’s all Clint says he can handle.”

Bucky snorts out his laughter. After a moment, Natasha joins in.

“Yeah, it’s a shitshow,” she admits, smiling.

“Couldn’t expect any less from Clint Barton,” says Bucky, smiling back.

“We gonna talk about how you blew me off the other day?” asks Natasha, abruptly changing the subject.

Bucky groans. “I knew you’d bring that up,” he says, rubbing his face.

“Yeah, well. You crapped out on me. I was looking forward to spending time with you, радость,” she says. “So what were you sick with, if you were sick?”

Bucky pauses, trying to think of a believable excuse. “Alcohol,” he says, finally. He doesn’t look at her.

“Oh,” says Nat, and she doesn’t sound disappointed, but he knows she is. “You were too drunk to come work out with me,” she says, and Bucky is reminded of his mother, for some reason. Nat can guilt trip with the best of them.

“Hungover,” says Bucky, correcting her. “I’m so sorry, Natasha,” he finishes, voice low. “I don’t really have an excuse.”

“You do, радость,” she says, sadly. “You’re depressed. And you’re probably an alcoholic.”

Bucky decides to bypass arguing semantics with Natasha; he knows he won’t win. “That’s not an excuse worth anything,” he says, finally. He finds he can’t quite look anywhere but at his own hands.

“You’re sick,” says Natasha. “Depression and addiction. Those are illnesses, Bucky.” Bucky doesn’t respond.

Natasha sighs. She claps Bucky on the knees and stands up. “I have to go to work,” she says.

“I’ll let myself out,” says Bucky, standing up.

“Don’t you dare,” says Natasha, walking to her room to get changed. “You have to stay here tonight, I insist.” She speaks loudly, so he can hear her from her room. “Just… watch TV and sleep. I don’t care. Eat my food. Just be here when I get back.”

Bucky can do that.

 

* * *

 

Bucky wakes up, blinking in the sun. It’s overwhelming how bright it is in here. His shithole of an apartment has only one window and it’s right up against a building — he gets no natural light at all. Nat’s apartment; it’s nice.

He unfurls himself from the fetal position he slept in; pleased to see that all six feet of him can stretch out on Natasha’s enormous couch. He checks his phone and finds that it’s dead; he forgot to charge it, last night. By the looks of how bright it is outside, it’s probably mid-morning. A glance at Natasha’s old-fashioned wall-clock confirms that it’s about 11 AM. Natasha won’t be home until noon, at least.

He makes himself poptarts, multiple, and tries not to think about how Natasha would want him to eat healthier food, something with vitamins in it. He brushes his teeth with his finger, and looks at himself in the mirror. He doesn’t recognize the person looking back. A gaunt face, dead eyes. Limp, lank hair that hangs down to his shoulders. That’s the part he’d never quite get used to, he thinks to himself. He’d never get used to not being attractive, the way he used to be. He feels stupid for feeling bad about it, feels like a sixteen year-old girl, and tries to push the thoughts from his head. He looks away, irritated with himself for his moment of vanity.

Bucky makes a decision. He knows he’s supposed to wait until Nat gets home, but he doesn’t feel up for that limited amount of social interaction. He can’t stomach more veiled pity sent his way, he realizes, feeling unexpectedly sad that spending time with Nat isn’t fun anymore; has become tainted by his problems.

He leaves, locking the door behind him. Nat will understand, he thinks to himself, but doesn’t really believe it.

 

* * *

 

It’s quiet at the bar; just Leroy and Mad Max and the Professor, his most regular of regulars. Max and Leroy are drinking in silence and the Professor is expounding on the conflict in Yemen, and Bucky nods along, not really listening, but keeping up appearances nonetheless.

“Fuckin’ Obama colluding with the fuckin’ Saudis who are murdering left and right,” the Professor mutters, drinking his beer and looking angry.

Bucky makes a noncommittal sound, makes it sound like he’s listening, but he’s not, really.

“Everyone fuckin’ talks about Syria, everyone fuckin’ talks about Afghanistan, no one fuckin’ talks about fuckin’ Yemen,” the Professor explodes. His eyes are watery, bleary, but there’s a fire to them.

“Goddammit John, would you shut the fuck up?” yells Mad Max, suddenly. Bucky turns, surprised. It’s not like Max to challenge anyone. He’s a drunk, for sure, but he’s a mellow sort of drunk, despite his nickname.  

“Make me, you dirty piece of shit!” yells the Professor, standing up and facing Max, wavering a little bit.

“Sit the fuck down, John,” says Bucky, loudly, an edge to his voice. He doesn’t want to deal with a bar fight, not today. It’s four in the goddamn afternoon, too early for this bullshit. The Professor complies, still staring daggers at Max.

“Jeeeesus,” complains Max, shaking his head. “The fuckin’ _people_ who come into this place,” he says, disgustedly. He laughs suddenly, bellows with it. His mouth opens wide, and Bucky can see each rotten tooth.

Leroy smiles at Bucky, unsteadily. “Hey Bucky, can you fill me up?” he asks, sweetly.

“Nope,” says Bucky, smiling back at Leroy. “You’re going to piss your pants if you drink anymore, buddy.” He likes Leroy. He’s probably the worst alcoholic in this place, but he’s never caused a fight, never once made anyone angry enough to throw a punch. (In a bar like this, that’s an accomplishment.)

“Come on, Bucky, I’ll drink it real slow, I promise,” pleads Leroy. He’s got a wobbly smile on his face, like he’s about to start crying if Bucky says no.

“Drink some water, then you can have whatever you want,” promises Bucky.

Leroy lights up. “Even Fireball?”

“We’ll see about Fireball,” says Bucky. There’s no fucking way he’s letting Leroy anywhere near hard liquor today, but it’s a fight they can have after Leroy drinks some water.

The bell rings. Bucky looks up, and is surprised to see people he’s never seen before enter the bar; a man and a woman. He’s supporting her; she’s hunched over, making sounds of distress. Regular people sometimes walk into the bar. They usually take a look around and walk right out, but these two look like they have other things on their mind than evaluating the worth of the establishment.

“Can I help you folks?” Bucky calls out, polishing a glass.

“Bathroom,” the woman grunts.

“Um, do you have a bathroom we can use?” asks the man, sounding worried.

“Yeah, right in the back,” says Bucky, pointing. The woman practically sprints to the ladies room, and closes the door behind her.

The man walks to the bar, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. He’s gorgeous, Bucky realizes. Blonde, clean shaven; tall and broad. He’s wearing a tight white t-shirt, probably a size too small; Bucky can see every muscle. Dude definitely doesn’t belong in a place like this.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “We went to that Persian place across the street, and everything was fine, and then she almost fell over, saying her stomach hurts. I hope she’s okay.”

“Yeah, that place is questionable,” says Bucky, sympathetically. “Used to be great, but there’s new management, now. I don’t know that their standards are wonderful when it comes to cleanliness.” He tries to ignore the irony of what he just said — his own bar doesn’t even have clean dish rags.

“I should probably get something, the man says, looking behind the bar. “Um, maybe a beer. You got Stella Artois?”

“On tap and in a bottle,” says Bucky.

“Bottle, please,” says the man, eyeing the row of pint glasses behind the bar suspiciously. Bucky doesn’t blame him. He wouldn’t drink here either. He goes to the cooler, pops open a bottle for the man and hands it to him.

“You look familiar,” says the man, looking at Bucky. “I’m Steve Rogers, have we met before?”

The name triggers something in Bucky, some distant memory.

“Maybe?” says Bucky, frowning. “Name sure sounds familiar.”

“What’s your name?” asks Steve.

“Bucky. Bucky Barnes,” says Bucky.

“Oh, holy fucking shit,” says Steve, eyes going wide. “ _Bucky?_ ”

And suddenly Bucky remembers. Little Stevie Rogers, five feet of tiny towheaded weakling, following him around after school like a puppy who saw a treat.

“Steven Fucking Rogers,” says Bucky, amazed. “What the fuck happened to you?” he asks.

“Puberty and a gym addiction,” says Steve, astonishment on his face. “What the fuck happened to _you_?” he asks, looking at Bucky’s arm.

“Afghanistan,” says Bucky, still reeling in shock.

“You went off to _war_?” asks Steve, incredulous. “You organized the Peace Club walkout to protest the war in Iraq when you were a freshman,” he says, and Bucky laughs. Trust Stevie to know that detail about Bucky’s life — kid was in middle school at the time; didn’t even know Bucky when the walkout happened.

“Yeah, shit happens, what can I say,” says Bucky, feeling lightheaded; giddy.

“You used to wear a ‘No War for Oil’ t-shirt every day to school,” says Steve, and then blushes. “Not that there’s anything wrong with the military,” he says. “Oh god, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to offend,” he says, looking genuinely upset.

“No offense taken, says Bucky, gently. “The military fucking sucks,” he says. “I don’t know one person in the military who would say any different.”

“That’s fuckin’ right,” says the Professor suddenly, eyes flashing. Bucky sighs. ”Fuck Obama, fuckin’ warmonger!” he slurs. “Fuck him and his fuckin’ wife and _I fuckin’ hope his daughters get raped!_ ”

“Okay, that’s goddamn _it_ ,” says Bucky, suddenly furious. “Out, John. Get the _fuck out!”_ He stalks to the other end of the bar and picks the Professor up by the scruff of his shirt; pushes him out the door, as Mad Max cheers and laughs.

He comes back behind the bar. “Sorry,” he says, not wanting to look at Steve, who looks a little shell-shocked.

“Holy shit,” says Steve, in awe. “That was…”

“Yeah, fucked up,” says Bucky gruffly. “Sorry, I don’t like people talking that way around me.” He finds it hard to look at Steve.

“That was awesome,” says Steve, eyes shining, and Bucky is suddenly transported back to high school. He doesn’t think anyone’s ever looked at him with more adoration the way skinny little Steve Rogers used to. He can’t help himself; he smiles back; they stare at each other for a second.

“If y’all are done having your moment,” drawls Leroy, dangling his empty pint glass in front of Bucky. He looks irritated that someone else has claimed Bucky’s attention away from him.

Bucky takes the glass from Leroy and fills it up, barely paying attention to Leroy. His heart is beating fast.

“So what are you doing now?” he asks Steve, eager to hear more.

“I’m finishing up school,” says Steve. “Social Work at City College. Spent a few years in the Peace Corps; that’s why it’s taking me so long. How about you; what are you up to?”

Bucky starts at the question. “Uh,” he says, awkwardly. “This, I guess,” trying hard not to turn red. “Can’t really go back into the military, not with this thing—” he gestures at his bum arm, “—so the bar it is,” he says. He finds it hard to look at Steve in the eyes.

“Oh!” says Steve, clearly surprised. “That’s… I guess that’s…” he trails off, like he doesn’t know what to say.

The bathroom door opens, and the girl comes out, looking pale.

“Steve, I think I just shat out my small intestine,” she says, and Steve laughs; it’s such a pure, clear sound, like bells tinkling.

“But you were just firing from one end though, right?” says Steve, giving her a gentle hug.

“Ha ha,” the girl says, in a surly tone.

“Buck, thank you so much,” says Steve, dropping a five on the bar. Bucky tries to give Steve his change, and Steve waves him off.

“You know that guy?” the girl asked in a low tone as they walk away.

“Went to high school with him,” says Steve, and they’re gone; it’s like they were never here.

And then Leroy falls off his stool and Bucky comes back to reality; his hard-edged, filthy, beer-soaked reality. He goes around the bar to help Leroy back on.

“Didn’t I tell ya if you had another beer you’d piss your pants?” says Bucky, roughly.

“My pants are dry, thank you ver’ much,” slurs Leroy. “And you were the one who served me,” he says, surprisingly astute for how drunk he is.

“That I did,” mutters Bucky. He had completely forgotten about making Leroy drink water before having another beer; being with Steve had thrown him, and thrown him hard.

“Thanks, kid,” says Leroy, morosely. “Sorry for being such a fuck-up.”

“You’re not a fuck-up, dude,” says Bucky, patting Leroy on the arm. “You’ve just got your problems. We all do.”

Leroy smiles at Bucky, so tender it breaks Bucky’s heart.

Bucky looks at the bottle Steve left on the bar — it is mostly full, and for a second, Bucky thinks about finishing it, placing his mouth on the same spot Steve placed his lips. It’s a wild thought, one that he soon dismisses. He pours the bottle out into the drain.

 

* * *

 

Bucky takes a big swig of his bodega coffee. He’s early for his shift — wanted to clean the bathrooms before customers came in today. It’s Friday, after all— technically, it’s his money night. He busies himself in wiping down the bar, sweeping the floor. Someone tries to open the door, and Bucky yells at them that the bar is closed — the intruder persists and Bucky goes to tell them off, personally.

He unlocks the door, ready to throw a punch, if he needs to, (you can never be too sure with the drunks who hang out at his bar,) and it’s Steve, Steve Fucking Rogers standing on the doorstep, shining like the fucking sun.

“Holy shit,” says Bucky, not even trying to hide his shock at seeing Steve. “You came back,” he says, amazed.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you, Bucky,” says Steve, so earnestly, just like he used to talk when he was a kid. His eyes are big and round and for a second, Bucky can only see the ninety-pound version, the boy who used to hold him back after Gay-Straight Alliance meetings to talk his ear off about heteronormativity, braces glinting in the fluorescent lights of the band practice room.

“I don’t see why,” says Bucky, gruffly. “Not much to think about,” he says, giving Steve a self-deprecating smile. He knows it just comes off as sad.

“I want to take you out,” says Steve, firmly, and Bucky’s heart skips a beat. “I spent all evening looking for you on Facebook, and when I couldn’t find you, I decided to come back here and ask you out, for real.”

“Thanks, Steve, but it’s not really a good idea,” says Bucky, looking down, looking anywhere but at Steve. He doesn’t know why he’s turning this golden god of a man down, except that he doesn’t think he could stand to be in the same room as him much longer. Steve’s light might shine too brightly on Bucky’s rough edges.

“Honestly, I’m not taking no for an answer,” says Steve, looking at Bucky seriously. “I’ve been wanting to go out with you since I was fourteen, Bucky.”

“What about the girl? The one you were with yesterday?” asks Bucky, weakly.

“Wanda? Just a good friend. That wasn’t a date,” says Steve. “Besides, she’s too young for me.”

“ _You’re_ too young for me, aren’t you?” says Bucky, frowning. “What, you gotta be like, twenty-one? Twenty-two?”

“I’m twenty-five, Bucky,” says Steve, patiently. “I’m three years younger than you, remember?”

Bucky is silent, he rubs the back of his neck, awkwardly. He realizes, suddenly, that he’s wearing the same clothes he wore yesterday. He had had intentions to change last night, but got too drunk and passed out on the couch. He hopes that Steve hasn’t noticed.

“Guess I’m out of excuses,” says Bucky, roughly. He feels a smile creep over him, he can’t really stop it.

Steve smiles then, so bright it could compete with the sun.

“Wonderful,” says Steve, all business-like, suddenly. “Give me your phone, I’m going to put my number in,” he says, and Bucky complies, only a little embarrassed to be handing over his cracked iphone. “When do you get off work?” asks Steve.

“Uh, 4 AM. Same tomorrow. We should probably wait until Sunday,” says Bucky.

“Sunday it is, then,” says Steve. He makes Bucky text him so Steve has Bucky’s number, and then he’s gone.

Bucky hums as he cleans the bathrooms.

 

 


	2. The First Goddamn Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky go on a date. Things don't go quite as planned, but it all works out in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, uh, this is *mostly* pornography. I feel kind of ridiculous about putting this into the universe, but the muse must be satisfied, dammit. 
> 
> Again, a little autobiographical note: someone did actually piss on my bar. He's got a lifetime ban. Dude honestly thought he was in the bathroom; he just whipped it out and started peeing. It was wild. 
> 
> Trigger warnings for drunk sex.

Bucky keeps checking the time, restless. He’s been trying to read for the last hour, and nothing is sticking. Reading Dostoyevsky turns out to not be a great pre-date activity. He wishes he was at Natasha’s, wishes he could use her internet connection to watch Netflix on his phone. Would be nice to absorb himself in something simple and stupid, like Futurama, or Friends.

He gives up, and decides to look at himself some more, in the hopes that something has changed since the last time he’s looked at himself. There’s one reflective surface in the entire apartment, the mirror above his bathroom sink, and he fusses in front of it for a little bit, combing his hair, then roughing it up when he thinks it looks stupid. Bucky washes his face again, just splashes water on himself, and is irritated when it does nothing to calm him down.

Bucky makes a decision; he pulls out the bottle of almost-empty bourbon from under the table and takes a shot; the headrush soothes him immediately. He brushes his teeth, so as to eliminate all signs of the whiskey. He glances one more time at his phone, and is pleased to see that almost fifteen minutes has passed since he last checked; a personal record, of sorts.

He checks his clothes one more time — the black skinny jeans (he doesn’t have that many pants, all right?), a nice purple v-neck t-shirt, given to him by Clint, who said it was “too gay” for him to keep (So, perfect for Bucky, then). He gives into temptation and looks in the mirror one more time — he looks like hipster trash, which is what he’s going for, really. It’s the only look he can pull off anymore; he’s lost too much muscle mass to manage the beefy soldier thing, and he can’t do clean-cut college boy either; he’s a little too old for that, a little too rough around the edges.

He tucks his hair behind his ears, takes a deep breath, and heads out the door.

 

* * *

 

He sits across from Steve and tries to stop freaking out. He can’t remember the last time he was on a date with someone this good looking. Hell, he can’t remember the last time he was on a date, period. Steve is munching on his salad; he looks thrilled to be in the same room as Bucky, blissfully unaware of Bucky’s internal struggle. He’s wearing a blue button down, and it looks _so goddamn good_ on him that Bucky wants to cry.

Steve’s insisted on taking Bucky somewhere nice, unfortunately. It’s a _French restaurant_. An expensive French restaurant. Bucky is terrified that Steve expects him to pay half; he feels ashamed of himself when he realizes he’s scared of that possibility. (He actually has the cash, for once — it was a busy weekend at the bar — he just really needs to save the money for rent.)

“So, Steve Fuckin’ Rogers,” says Bucky, smiling, trying to keep the nervousness from his voice. He clutches his beer, takes a swig.

Steve grins, and Bucky’s heart does a backflip. _How_ does someone manage to look that good just by _smiling_?

“That’s me,” says Steve, almost shyly.

Bucky doesn’t know what to say next. Saying Steve’s name with some profanity sprinkled in — that was all he had planned. He’s profoundly grateful when Steve speaks.

“It’s so nice to see you again, after all this time, Bucky,” he says, earnestly. “I’ve thought about you a lot over the years.”

“You have?” asks Bucky, surprised.

“Come on, man,” says Steve, grinning. “You were totally my first real crush.” Steve ducks his head, blushes a little. Bucky is charmed.

“Wait a minute,” says Bucky, remembering something. “You were totally straight in high school,” he says, grinning. “You used to wear an ‘I’m a Straight Ally’ t-shirt to all our GSA events.”

“Right, well, turns out: not that straight after all,” says Steve, ears pink with embarrassment, but he’s smiling. “Came out in my senior year. I’m pretty bi, actually.”

“Wow,” says Bucky. He leans back, still looking at Steve. “Little Stevie Rogers swings both ways, huh?” he says, flirtatiously. He doesn’t know why he’s choosing to turn on the charm. He must still be nervous — flirting when nervous was always a bad habit of his.

“Most definitely,” says Steve, winking at Bucky, giving as good as he gets. Bucky feels a little shiver go down his spine.

“So, tell me more about you, Steve,” says Bucky, knowing that this line of questioning is dangerous, as it might open up questions about his own life, but fuck it, Bucky needs something to say. “I want to know the full text version, not just the cliffnotes. What have you been doing with your life?”

Steve smiles at Bucky and starts to tell him about himself; the two years he spent in Morocco, working for the Peace Corps. They try to speak a little in Arabic, and don’t get very far — Bucky never learned much Arabic, just a little from his fellow soldiers who had been to Iraq, and what they spoke wasn’t very good, mostly just phrases; ways to order people around. Steve is nearly fluent in Moroccan Arabic, and it is ridiculous.

(“Come on, it’s not that impressive. I was stuck in the country for two years with barely any English,” Steve says, sheepishly.

“Yeah, and you should hear my Pashto,” says Bucky, laughing. “It’s miserable.”)

They move on to the college years, and Bucky is just as impressed. Turns out, Steve’s not an undergrad; he’s getting his masters in social work. He can’t believe that Steve had felt embarrassed about still being in grad school at twenty-five. Bucky says as much.

“I guess it is a little hyper-competitive of me,” concedes Steve. “I’m just so eager to get out of school, get on with the real world. What’s it like, not being a student?” he asks Bucky.

“Um,” says Bucky, thinking fast. “It’s definitely less work than being in college,” says Bucky, laughing. His heart is racing; he hopes Steve won’t ask anymore.

“You went upstate for college, right?” asks Steve. “One of the SUNYs?”

“Yeah,” says Bucky. “Albany”.

“Oh, cool. So what did you major in?” asks Steve, oblivious to the mess he was turning Bucky into.

“Political science,” grunts Bucky, taking a deep swig of his beer. He wishes it was socially acceptable to order something a little stronger on a first date.

“Wouldn’t expect anything less from Bucky Barnes,” says Steve, eyes shining. “You probably don’t remember this, but you’re the first person to turn me on to Naomi Klein.”

“Oh wow,” says Bucky. “ _No Logo_?” he asks, straining to remember.

“Yeah, man. You gave me your copy at the end the year, told me to keep it. I still have it, I went ahead and marked it up.”

“Cool,” says Bucky. He honestly can’t remember a thing about Naomi Klein, other than that she didn’t like corporations very much, and that he had liked her a whole lot in high school.

“Yeah, and then I read _The Shock Doctrine_ in college, and game over, you know? It really opened my eyes to the kind of games we’ve played in Latin America; we’ve really controlled that continent from afar,” says Steve, earnestly.

Bucky hasn’t read _The Shock Doctrine_. He can’t keep up with this conversation, he realizes. There’s an awkward silence as Bucky thinks of something to say and fails.

Steve seems to notice. He changes the subject. “So, college,” he says. “How was moving upstate? Did you like it?”

“Sure,” says Bucky, grateful, but wishes they could get off the subject of college. “It was quieter. Albany is really small compared to New York; I mostly spent all my time on campus.”

“I kind of wish I had gotten out of the city for college,” muses Steve. “I actually got into some pretty good schools out of state, but I didn’t want to be in debt until I was forty, so CUNY it was.”

“CUNY’s still a great system,” Bucky points out.

“Oh, entirely. I’m really so grateful for the education I got, I really am,” says Steve, and their food arrives, just in time.

Bucky gets a risotto of some kind — definitely the cheapest option on the menu, anticipating the nightmare scenario that Bucky would have to pay something for this meal — but Steve has gotten a filet mignon; he is cutting into it with relish. Bucky feels slightly jealous, tries not to look too longingly at the meat.

They eat and make small talk. Bucky orders another beer, and is beginning to feel it; Steve is still nursing the one.

“That was too damn good,” says Steve as their plates are taken away, patting his belly. He had insisted Bucky take bites of the steak, and Bucky had put up a token protest, but was secretly very glad — it’s been years since he had had a good steak. Bucky polishes off his beer and the check comes.

Bucky grabs the check, heart beating fast, hoping Steve will intervene, and Steve doesn’t disappoint.

“Not a chance, buddy,” says Steve, sternly.

“Really?” asks Bucky, weakly.

“Yeah, this is my treat. Are you kidding? You can’t take away my chance to treat Bucky Barnes to a fancy dinner,” says Steve, with an air of finality.

“All right then,” says Bucky, passing the check over to Steve. For a wild second, he regrets not getting a steak of his own, and then firmly pushes the thought down.

They leave the restaurant. Bucky offers to walk Steve home, and Steve agrees, saying he lives quite close by.

“This is you?” asks Bucky, as Steve slows to a halt in front of an apartment building.

“This is me,” says Steve. He gives no warning before grabbing Bucky by the shirt, pulling him in close, kissing him roughly.

Bucky kisses back, once he realizes what’s happening. Steve’s mouth is hot on his, but the kid clearly knows what he’s doing; he must have picked up a few tricks since high school.

“Sorry,” says Steve, pulling back abruptly. “Been wanting to do that since I was fourteen,” he says, looking embarrassed.

“It’s fine,” says Bucky, quickly. His heart is beating so fast and he’s half-hard; just being close to Steve does that to him.

“Really?” asks Steve, voice low, scratchy. He’s looking at Bucky’s lips, like he wants to bite them.

“Yeah,” says Bucky, dizzy with want. Steve kisses Bucky again, kisses him deeply, and Bucky opens his mouth to the kiss — they make out in front of Steve’s apartment.

“Inside?” asks Steve, breathlessly.

“Yeah,” says Bucky, and Steve pulls Bucky into his apartment, pulls him into what must be Steve’s room. Steve pushes Bucky against the wall, and leans on his palms, framing Bucky with his arms. He doesn’t move, just stands there, staring at Bucky with an awed look on his face.

Bucky blushes under the onslaught of Steve’s gaze. He pulls at Steve’s shirt to try and get him close to Bucky again; Steve doesn’t budge; he is supremely unconcerned by Bucky’s efforts to make this move faster. Steve places his hand over one of Bucky’s, massages it, draws it up to his lips and kisses it. Bucky feels like he could melt into a puddle; being _kissed_ by Steve Rogers is one thing, being _wooed_ by him is an entirely different story.

Bucky pulls at Steve again with his free hand, and this time Steve steps a little closer, but doesn’t take over, the way Bucky wants him to. Bucky can feel Steve’s breath hot on his face; Steve seems to be holding himself back, straining with the effort of going slow. Finally — finally! — Steve ducks in for a kiss. It’s a chaste one, nothing like the filthy way they made out on the sidewalk. A little kiss, another little kiss. Bucky chases Steve’s lips on the last peck; Steve holds himself out of reach, and Bucky falls back, frustrated.

“Don’t be a tease, Stevie,” murmurs Bucky.

“You kidding? I finally have you,” says Steve, running a hand up Bucky’s side.  “I’m gonna take this slow,” says Steve, tucking his fingers under Bucky’s chin, pulling Bucky’s face up to meet his. He kisses Bucky deeply, and steps closer, boxing Bucky in.

And suddenly, it’s just a little too real.

He pushes tentatively on Steve’s shoulders, not sure how Steve will respond, but Steve _leaps_ back automatically. There’s as much distance between them now as there was at the restaurant — Bucky aches at the lack of contact.

“Are you okay?” asks Steve, looking worriedly at Bucky. Guilt shines on his face.

“Yeah, man,” says Bucky, red-faced. “I’m fine, I just…” he doesn’t know what to say. Things were going so perfect, and Bucky had to go fuck it up so spectacularly.

“It’s okay,” says Steve, quickly. “We don’t have to do stuff. We can… just hang out?”

“Actually, I think I’m going to go,” says Bucky, miserably. He can’t believe the words that are coming out of his mouth. He pushes himself off the wall, and leaves Steve’s room.

Steve follows Bucky out the door, into the hallway. “Can I do anything for you?” he asks, clearly at a loss. “Can I call you an Uber?”

“No, that’s… that’s okay,” says Bucky, gruffly. He turns to face Steve, but he can’t quite look at him.

“I just… I thought things were going really well, in there,” says Steve, weakly. From the corner of his eye, Bucky sees Steve rub the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “Can you give me any sort of hint about what I did wrong?” asks Steve.

“Nothing,” says Bucky, shocked at how firm he sounds. “You one hundred percent did nothing wrong. It’s me, Steve. I’m just… yeah,” he falters. “There’s something wrong with me,” he finishes, quietly.

“Oh, Bucky,” says Steve. It’s his turn to sound firm now. “There is _nothing_ wrong with you, trust me,” and it’s such a goddamn sweet thing to say, Bucky can’t help himself. He steps forward and kisses Steve, once on the cheek. He flushes, because it’s a ridiculous thing for a grown man to do at the end of a date, and leaves before Steve can say anything, before Steve tries, once again, to convince Bucky to stay with him.

Bucky takes a deep breath once he’s outside, once he’s in the fresh air, once he’s alone. There are tears on his face, and this puzzles him. When did he start crying? He wipes them away on his forearm, feeling snotty and terrible. He starts walking home. It’s a forty-five minute walk to his apartment, but he needs to clear his head.

 

* * *

 

Bucky pushes open the door of the bar and breathes in the stale, beer-tinged air. _It’s good to be back_ , he thinks to himself, not quite sure if he’s being ironic or not. Two days off in a row sounds like a good thing, except that Bucky doesn’t know what to do with himself, when he’s not working. His apartment is too hot to stay in during the daytime hours, so he spends too much time in the park around the corner from his building, wishing he had a brown paper bag like the other drunks sleeping on the benches.

He knows he could have called Natasha — he didn’t feel like bothering her. Besides, normal people don’t have all that much free time on a Monday or a Tuesday, just service industry types, like him.

Ivan is at the register, fiddling at something with a screwdriver.

“Bucky,” he says, and Bucky knows immediately that Ivan’s got something on his mind. “You don’t let Mike in anymore, okay?” he says, in his thick Russian accent.

“Which Mike?” asks Bucky, coming behind the bar. “Vietnam Mike or Drunk Mike?” A shockingly large number of his patrons have had “drunk” incorporated somewhere into their nicknames.

“Drunk Mike,” says Ivan. “Vietnam Mike; he still good. Drunk Mike; no good.”

“What happened?” asks Bucky. He starts to take the wadded-up napkins out of the beer taps. (They put them there to prevent fruit flies — it doesn’t really help.) “What did Drunk Mike do?”

“He piss on bar, bro,” says Ivan, shaking his head.

“He _what_?” says Bucky, shocked. In all his years working at the bar, he’s never had anyone (intentionally) urinate on anything.

“He piss, he piss,” says Ivan, frustrated. “On bar. Ali throw him out.”

“Holy shit,” says Bucky, wanting to laugh, but refraining.

“I come in, on day off,” says Ivan, complaining. “Ali says his knees can’t bend to clean. I come in, get job done.”

Bucky knows that Ivan is telling this to him in order to make him feel better about not being asked to come in on _his_ day off; Bucky doesn’t feel like telling him he would have welcomed the distraction.

It’s a slow day, a painfully slow day at the bar. By the end of the night, Bucky is ready to tear his hair out from boredom. He’s been sipping drinks from behind the bar all day, and he’s fairly plastered by the time it’s time to close up shop — he’s experienced enough at drunkenness to do a good job of not showing it.

On his walk home, his thoughts turn to Steve, as they have been for the last three days straight. He can’t believe he let something so potentially great slip out of his fingers like that — doesn’t know if he’ll ever forgive himself. Bucky’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and he rushes to see who it is — it’s Natasha, not Steve. Of course. 

> _Where have you been? Call me sometime._

Bucky ignores the text.

When he finally gets home, he makes a decision. He pulls out his phone and types out:

> _Want to try again?_

and sends it to Steve. He sits down, pulls out a fresh bottle of bourbon, and takes a shot. Before he the buzz can settle in, his phone buzzes with a text from Steve. He nearly drops his phone in his haste to open the message. It reads:

> _YES._

A broad smile breaks out on Bucky’s face. Heart beating fast, he makes another rash decision.

> _What are you doing right now?_

Steve replies right away.

> _Nothing._

Bucky chews his lip, trying to decide what to do. Finally, he sends:

> _I can be there in half an hour._

(He can, too. The forty-five minute walk to Steve’s apartment is more like a fifteen minute walk if he splurges on public transport, and he’s never been more willing to spend money in his entire life.)

His phone buzzes. A reply from Steve.

> _What are you waiting for? See you soon._

Bucky goes to work. He jumps in the shower, just to get the smell of the bar off of him. He grabs a relatively clean t-shirt (he doesn’t pay much attention to what it looks like — he doesn’t intend for it to be on for very long), some jeans that don’t make his ass look horrible; throws everything on in record time. He brushes his teeth; spritzes himself with cheap cologne; he knows he needs to not smell like a bottle of whiskey, otherwise he won’t get anywhere with Steve. His hair, his hair — it’s passable. Not the cleanest, but it’ll have to do.

He leaves, almost forgetting to lock his door in his rush.

 

* * *

 

Twenty minutes later, he’s knocking on Steve’s door, breathless with anticipation. Steve answers the door and Bucky stares at him, almost in shock that this is working out, that he’s getting a second chance. Before Steve can say anything, Bucky is on him, kissing him furiously. Steve responds immediately, bringing his hands up to frame Bucky’s face, kissing him back.

Steve pulls away. Bucky chases his mouth, but Steve has put a hand on Bucky’s chest, holding him in place. “Bucky, would you like to come in?” he asks, grinning.

 _The little shit_ , thinks Bucky, grinning back. Bucky pushes at his chest in response, and Steve falls back through the doorway, pulling Bucky along with him.

They arrive in Steve’s room. Steve sits on the edge of his bed; Bucky slots in between his knees, and they kiss like teenagers; all tongue, all heart, no finesse.

Steve pulls back again. “You sure this is okay, Buck?” he whispers, and Bucky strips his t-shirt off in response. He doesn’t have time to be embarrassed about his skinny physique, about Steve getting to see the full metal arm up and close for the first time — Steve is taking his shirt off and _Jesus_ , those pecs — it’s all Bucky can do to get his hands on them, to feel him up.

“Holy shit, Rogers,” Bucky murmurs against Steve’s lips. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Like I said, Barnes,” says Steve, in between feather-light kisses. “Puberty and a gym addiction.”

“Well, god bless them both,” says Bucky, laughing, and he kisses Steve hard, tongue plumbing deep in Steve’s mouth. He climbs up on Steve’s lap, knees on either side of him, and realizes, with satisfaction, that Steve’s hard, Steve’s hard for him.

“You’ve wanted this for a long time, right?” asks Bucky, softly.

“Yeah,” Steve breathes.

“How long?” asks Bucky.

“Since I first laid eyes on you,” responds Steve, automatically. “Wanted to have you like this.”

Bucky bites down on Steve’s neck, paying no mind to Steve’s frantic gasp. He sucks a hickey into Steve’s skin, realizing, with relish, that Steve is losing control — he’s bucking his hips, moving almost involuntarily.

Bucky releases Steve, and pulls back to look at him. Steve’s eyes are blown wide, his lips are red and plush — he looks like a goddamn wet dream, and this is all for _Bucky_ , and this is all actually _happening_ —

Bucky finds himself on his knees. He pushes Steve’s legs open; they give without much resistance. Bucky unbuttons Steve’s jeans, unzips his fly, bats Steve’s hands away when he tries to help. He takes out Steve’s dick — it’s long and uncut, and Bucky feels a shiver of anticipation go down his spine — he strokes it a few times with his good hand while staring up at Steve.

“You ready, Stevie?” he whispers. He presses a feather-light kiss to the tip of Steve’s dick; Steve groans and nods, frantically. Words seem beyond his capacity, at the moment. Bucky slides his mouth over the tip, sucks on it lightly. Steve sighs, rests his hands on Bucky’s head, stroking his hair, fingers trembling. Then Bucky takes him in fully, and Steve’s hand clenches in Bucky’s hair, like he can’t help himself. Bucky wants to smile in triumph; instead, he hollows out his mouth; lets Steve’s dick hit the entrance to his throat.

Steve makes little involuntary sounds as he fucks Bucky’s mouth, and Bucky lets his jaw go loose but keeps his lips firm, providing that tight ring of suction that he knows from experience makes everyone lose their shit. Steve clutches at Bucky’s hair, is using it as a handle, and Bucky knows that if Steve weren’t currently getting the life sucked out of him through his dick, he’d be frantically apologizing for the rough way he’s treating Bucky, and that knowledge drives Bucky _wild_.

Steve grunts out something that sounds like “‘m comin’,” and tries to pull away — Bucky chases his dick, not ready for this to be over. It’s too late for Steve — he groans as he comes, neatly pumping into Bucky’s mouth, and Bucky swallows with a relish.

“Get up here,” says Steve, roughly, pulling at Bucky, pulling him up to meet Steve. Steve kisses Bucky like Bucky didn’t just swallow Steve’s load, kisses him like he’s dying, and Bucky accepts the kiss happily.

“Holy _fucking shit_ , Bucky,” says Steve, breathing hard, like he just came down from a workout. “Where the fuck did you learn to do that?”

“You’d be surprised at what soldiers get up to in their off-hours,” says Bucky, grinning wickedly.

“Shut up,” says Steve, eyes going wide. “ _Really_? I had no idea.”

Bucky laughs, and kisses Steve. It wasn’t true, of course. The military had been chock full of no-homo and Bucky only ever got dick once in his entire army career — but Steve doesn’t need to hear about what a slut Bucky was, back when he was in college.

Steve pushes at Bucky to get him to lie flat on the bed; Bucky gives way only reluctantly, uncomfortable with the prospect of attention being shifted to him.

Steve hovers over Bucky, kissing him gently, and Bucky feels exposed; vulnerable. It’s almost a relief when Steve palms Bucky’s hardness; when he takes out Bucky’s cock and strokes it — Bucky can concentrate on the sensation of a hand on his dick, of being stroked to completion. When it’s over and Steve leaves to go find a wet washcloth, Bucky falls back onto the pillows, breathing fast.

Steve wipes Bucky down and yawns — Bucky glances at his phone.

“It’s almost 2 AM,” says Bucky, shocked.

“Yeah,” says Steve, smiling at Bucky, lazily.

“I should go, let you get your beauty rest,” says Bucky, making an effort to get out of bed.

“Don’t you dare,” warns Steve, pushing him back down. “Stay?” he asks, sounding very young, all of a sudden.

“Okay,” says Bucky, relenting. “What time do you get up?”

“Eight,” says Steve, yawning again. Steve disappears to take his contacts out. He offers Bucky pajama pants; Bucky refuses, saying he prefers to sleep naked.

They get into bed together. Steve falls asleep with his arms around Bucky, but Bucky doesn’t fall asleep until much later.

 

 


	3. In Which Sam and Clint Make A Fucking Appearance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam worries about Steve; Clint and Natasha worry about Bucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is angsty, but then like really surprisingly fluffy at the end? I hope you like it! Also, introducing Steve's POV!

Bucky’s gone when Steve wakes. Steve lies there for a while, heart hammering in his chest — he had fallen asleep to dreams of making Bucky breakfast, of introducing (or reintroducing) him to Sam, of kissing him goodbye on the front steps of his building before he rushes off to his first class of the day — it hurts to wake to Bucky’s palpable absence.

Steve pulls his phone off the nightstand, checks it. Nothing from Bucky.

Steve sighs, and swings his legs around the side of his bed. He stretches, yawns, puts his glasses on. He heads to the kitchen and pours himself some OJ — Sam’s already up, to no one’s surprise. His t-shirt is drenched with sweat and he’s doing his post-run stretches in the living room.

“Hey loverboy,” says Sam, a knowing grin already on his face.

“How the hell did you know?” asks Steve, eyes wide. Seriously, Sam had been in bed last night well before Bucky had come over; unless he had heard something… but Steve and Bucky hadn’t been _that_ loud, right?

“That hickey,” says Sam, nodding at Steve’s neck. Steve groans and slaps his hand over the mark — it stings at the contact. “That’s how I know,” says Sam, grinning. “So who’s the lucky person of as-of-yet-undisclosed gender, Rogers?”

“Um,” says Steve, going pink.

“Wait,” says Sam, and he loses some of his frivolity. “It wasn’t…”

“Yeah,” says Steve, gruffly. “It was Bucky.”

“He came back?” asks Sam. He comes into the kitchen, sits on one of the kitchen island stools, is looking at Steve seriously. Steve is wildly happy that Sam isn’t teasing him anymore — out of anyone, Sam Wilson should know how delicate a subject Bucky Barnes is for Steve.

“Yeah,” says Steve. “And he didn’t stick around.” Steve looks away; looks at the floor.

“Oh Steve,” says Sam. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” says Steve, miserably. He pulls out the english muffins; starts to make himself a breakfast sandwich.

“Steve, maybe it’s for the best,” says Sam, gently, after a minute of watching Steve gather ingredients.

“Don’t say that, Sam,” says Steve, quietly. He cracks an egg onto the sizzling frying pan, watches it as it bakes into something edible.

“Look, I’ve known you a really long time—” Sam starts, and Steve wants to groan, because here it comes; here’s the Bucky Lecture that Sam’s been giving Steve for the better part of nine years, “— and as long as I’ve known you, you’ve been fucked up over this guy.”

“Bucky is amazing,” says Steve, obstinately. He won’t look at Sam.

“You don’t know that he’s amazing,” says Sam, patiently. “You don’t know him. You last laid eyes on him a decade ago, and now he’s a bartending one-armed war veteran who won’t tell you anything specific about his life.”

“But it’s _Bucky_ ,” Steve says, morosely. He flips the egg out of the pan and onto the english muffin. He puts the sandwich together and stands there looking at it, for once in his life not hungry. “He’s still the same Bucky who looked out for me when I was a kid; he’s still the guy who helped me figure out I was queer.”

“Steve, he was your childhood crush, and you barely knew him then; you certainly don’t know him now,” says Sam, firmly. Steve rolls his eyes. Hearing this speech one more time won’t do anything to diminish his ardour for Bucky, if the first thousand iterations couldn’t sway him.

“You don’t get it, man,” says Steve, walking over to Sam with the sandwich, silently offering it to him. “Last night was incredible. It was so… intimate,” says Steve, and blushes slightly, but continues. “He really opened up to me. It was everything I ever wanted,”

“Except for the part where he leaves in the middle of the night without leaving a note or sending a text or anything,” says Sam, still skeptical, but Steve’s known Sam for so long, he can already tell Sam is softening.

“There has to be an explanation,” says Steve, firmly. “This isn’t like him, I know it. He’ll text me, eventually.”

“And I really hope he does, Steve,” says Sam, kindly. “Until then, you’ve got to live your life. Don’t let this derail you, man.”

“I won’t, I promise,” says Steve. He means it, too.

“Good,” says Sam, reaching over and thumping Steve on the back. He takes a bite of the sandwich Steve made and groans with happiness. “I should marry you, Rogers,” he says, mouth full of egg and cheese and muffin.

“Riley wouldn’t like that, very much,” says Steve, grinning, leaning on the island.

“Man, screw Riley,” says Sam, grinning. “That man might be dynamite in bed, but he can’t cook for shit.”

Steve cracks up. Sam follows soon after.

They finish up in the kitchen and head off for their respective showers — _time to get the day started_ , thinks Steve, putting all thoughts of Bucky firmly out of his head.

 

* * *

  

Bucky jiggles the key in the lock, frustrated. He wonders why the door isn’t opening.

“Try a different key,” says Leroy, helpfully. He’s been waiting outside the bar, waiting for it to open up. His customary cowboy hat is pulled low over his face to shield him from the sun, and he stinks of cigarettes.

Bucky thinks of saying something bitchy back to Leroy, but chooses to keep his mouth shut. If he has to spend all day with the dude, he might as well keep things on a positive note. Irritated, he decides to try another key. The lock turns, the door successfully pushes open.

“Toldja,” says Leroy, a smirk on his face. He dips the brim of his hat at Bucky, like he’s a fucking Texan ranch-hand, not an alcoholic Brooklynite, and slides past him, into the dark of the bar. Bucky can smell the unwash coming off of Leroy in waves — he wonders if Leroy has been sleeping rough again.

Bucky busies himself with setting up the bar. It’s a Thursday — he expects a decent crowd tonight; moreso than yesterday, at least. He chops fresh lemons and limes, gives his glassware a second wash. Can’t hurt.

“You’re quiet today, Bucky,” says Leroy, and Bucky fucking hates it when Leroy is perceptive. “Cat got your tongue?”

“Just don’t feel like talkin’, Leroy,” replies Bucky, tired.

“That’s fine, that’s fine,” says Leroy, kindly. He orders another beer, and Bucky slides it over to him — Leroy pays in small change.

“You panhandling again?” asks Bucky bluntly, counting out the coins, putting them away in the register.

“It’s my laundry money,” mutters Leroy, but Bucky doesn’t believe him. He’s not in a mood to press the case, though.

Truth is, Bucky is too absorbed by his other problems to worry much about Leroy’s economic situation. He had woken up in Steve’s bed at six in the morning, dehydrated and completely sober. He had thrown on his clothes; had gone to the kitchen to get some water, and then… he just left.

 _You’re a fucking coward_ , Bucky thinks to himself. It was true, wasn’t it? Didn’t want to face Steve being aggressively nice at him in the morning, didn’t want to deal with meeting the roommate, who he had heard rustling around when he woke up. Blowjob and disappear; it was all he was good for.

Regulars start to trickle in; slowly, Bucky becomes more and more absorbed in his work, and has less time to dwell on what happened this morning. Mad Max shows up clearly hungover; he and Leroy play a silent game of pool while Janine talks Bucky’s ear off about her latest issue with her landlady. A group of Dominican dock workers come in to drink after their shift; Bucky is profoundly grateful for their tips. Joe shows up right on time, wheeling over the missing floorboard at the entrance to the bar; Bucky slides over his draught beer without Joe needing to ask for it.

The Professor even turns up, for the first time since Bucky threw his ass out of the bar. He’s sheepish; is quieter than usual, and doesn’t meet Bucky’s eyes when he says hello. He even adds a belated please after he makes his order; it’s not an apology, but it’s as good as Bucky’ll get in this place, so he takes it.

The bell rings. Bucky looks up, expecting another regular — he’s at once surprised and apprehensive when Clint Barton slides onto a bar stool. He puts a Heineken in front of Clint, who grunts a word of thanks and takes a deep swig.

Bucky leans on the bar, watching Clint down his beer. Clint’s got a black eye, a fresh one that matches the fading bruise on his other eye.

“Motherfucker, you look like a raccoon,” Bucky says, a smile creeping over him, despite himself.

“Yeah,” says Clint, feeling the freshest bruise tenderly. He looks like the physical embodiment of dejection.

“What happened? Was it Barney, or a tenant?” asks Bucky. “Or both?”

“Tenant first,” says Clint, morosely. “Barney second. Turns out, Barney broke his leg, not his arm. He could still swing pretty good,” he says, and Bucky wants to laugh. It’s not often he meets a sadder fuck than himself, but today, Clint Barton might have him beat.

“That why you’re back early?” asks Bucky.

“‘m not back early,” says Clint. “Flew in this morning. As scheduled.”

“Oh,” says Bucky. He must have lost track of time.

Clint polishes off the beer, places the empty bottle back on the bar, looking expectantly at Bucky. Bucky pops open another bottle for Clint.

“So, did Nat send you?” asks Bucky, knowing he needs to ask the question, at least.

“Yeah,” grunts Clint. He drinks from his beer, and turns to look at Leroy and Mad Max’s game of pool. They watch for a while in silence — Leroy’s kicking Max’s ass, but that’s not saying much — Max isn’t known to be the steadiest hand.

“Is she pissed at me?” asks Bucky, apprehensively.

“A little,” says Clint, turning back to Bucky. “You can’t just not communicate with your friends, dude,” says Clint, a little sternly.

Bucky sighs. It has been probably more than a week since he’s said anything to Natasha, since he’s responded at all to her texts. He knows he’s being terrible. He knows, furthermore, that Natasha sending Clint on her behalf wasn’t really an expression of anger, it was an act of last resort from someone desperately worried for him. The knowledge just makes him feel worse.

One of the Dominican workers signals him and Bucky grabs them a fresh beer, grateful for the distraction.

By the time he comes back to to his side of the bar, Clint has placed a few bills next to his empty bottle. “Come over to Nat’s when your shift is over; I know you’ve only got a few more hours here. We expect you at seven,” says Clint, in what Bucky supposes is the same tone of voice he speaks to his tenants who are months late on their rent.

“Okay,” says Bucky, deflated. He doesn’t have the heart to fight Clint on this one, and besides, he’s all out of excuses.

“And Bucky?” says Clint, making sure he makes eye contact with him. “Don’t be drunk.”

Bucky just nods, swallowing around the gigantic lump that’s just formed in his throat.

 

* * *

 

He shows up, as promised, but couldn’t resist taking a few shots before leaving the bar. Liquid courage if he can’t manage the real thing, he thinks, and reasons that Natasha will forgive him for doing what he needs to do to to be brave. He takes a deep breath and knocks, and the door to Natasha’s apartment swings open, and Nat is there, and she looks so, so pissed, but also very relieved, and the next thing Bucky knows is that he’s being hugged.

“Oh, Bucky,” says Natasha, holding Bucky close, rubbing her hands up and down his sides. “Don’t do that to me again, радость,” she says, voice laden with frustration and worry, and Bucky feels like a fucking ant, he feels like a speck of dirt you’d find on the bottom of someone’s shoe.

“Sorry, Nat,” he says, voice low with shame.

“You fucking should be,” she says, but there’s no real heat to her voice. “It’s been over a week and I haven’t heard jack shit from you, how was I supposed to know if you were alive or dead?”

“I can take care of myself, come on,” protests Bucky, but he knows it’s bullshit; knows it before the words are all the way out of his mouth.

“You clearly can’t,” says Clint, coming up from behind Natasha, handing Bucky a coke. Bucky takes the can from Clint, takes a sip. He wishes it was mixed with something — he’s honestly a little irritated that he didn’t have the balls to bring his flask with him to Nat’s apartment.

“You should let us take care of you for a little bit,” says Natasha, with determination in her eyes. Bucky steps into the living room, takes a seat on the couch.

“Come on, guys,” he says, uncomfortable. “Don’t make this weird.”

“Nah, you owe us, dude,” says Clint, firmly. “We’re pampering you, and you can’t do anything about it.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and laughs. He is reminded of Steve, for some reason; of Steve’s single-minded devotion to making Bucky feel good.

“Okay, so first on the pampering to-do list,” says Nat, clapping her hands. “I’m making you a fresh salad; lots of healthy, leafy greens.”

“Anything else you want?” asks Clint.

“An ice-cold beer?” suggests Bucky, and his heart starts to race when he sees Nat glance at Clint, a worried look on her face. “Just kidding,” says Bucky quickly.  “Coke is fine,” he says, smiling, taking a big sip, as if to reassure his friends that he is actually fine with the plain, unadulterated soda.

Nat disappears into the kitchen and Clint sits next to Bucky, and turns the TV on. They watch an old movie for a while — for some reason, Clint really likes TV Land. Bucky notices that Clint has a beer in his hand. It looks cold. He tries not to stare, tries to keep his eyes on the screen.

“So, how was Barney?” asks Bucky, leaning back and throwing his arm across the back of the couch. “All I know is that he slugged you.”

Clint laughs and takes a sip of his beer. “Fucker was pissed at me the entire time; I kept making him do stuff, wouldn’t let him wallow in his misery. He finally broke and punched me in the face yesterday.”

“Yeah, it’s easy to slip into depression when you lose use of a limb,” says Bucky, realizing the irony of what he’s saying a little too late.

Clint turns to look at Bucky, eyebrows raised, and it’s all Bucky can do not to blush.

“Keep being perceptive like that, and we’ll cancel the intervention,” says Clint, smirking.

“Shut up,” says Bucky, flinging the soda tab at Clint’s head. Clint tries to dodge it; it hits him in the nose. Bucky laughs, despite himself.

“Boys, cut it out,” says Natasha, bringing Bucky a salad. “Blue cheese dressing, your favorite,” she says, and Bucky smiles at her. “Even though it’s unhealthy crap, I’m letting it slide, because you need to fatten up, радость,” she says. She seats herself next to Bucky, watches him as Bucky eats. It should be weird, but it actually feels kind of nice, to be looked after like this.

“Fill in the gaps for me, Bucky,” says Natasha. “What have you been doing all this time?”

“Um,” says Bucky, mouth full of salad greens. He swallows, awkwardly, and continues. “Working,” he says. “Mostly.”

“What else?” she asks. “What did you do on your time off?”

“Walk around,” says Bucky. “Hang out in the park.”

“Okay,” says Natasha. She sounds disappointed. She gets up to go to the kitchen, presumably to bring Bucky more food.

“I… I met someone,” says Bucky, fast. He blushes. He can’t believe he just admitted to that.

Natasha stops, turns around. “Wait, really?” she asks, voice low. She sounds excited. She glances at Clint, who has stopped paying attention to the movie on the television; he has turned his attention towards Bucky.

“Uh, yeah,” says Bucky. His cheeks feel hot.

“Guy or girl?” asks Natasha, eagerly. “Wait, it isn’t one of your bar skanks, is it?” she asks, suddenly looking worried.

Bucky laughs. “Nah, not a bar skank. And, uh. Guy.”

Natasha looks excited, but is trying to hold it in. “So what’s he do? Where did you meet him? Are you seeing him again?” she asks, sitting back down on the couch, turning towards Bucky.

“Babe, calm down,” says Clint, patiently. “Bucky, start with his name,” he says, kindly, and Bucky could kiss him.

“His name is Steve,” says Bucky, eyes trained on the remnants of his salad. “Steve Rogers. Yeah. I kind of knew him in high school.”

“Wait, this is a guy you knew in _high school_? You _didn’t_ meet him at the bar?” says Natasha, sounding more excited than Bucky knew it was possible for her to be.

“Well, no, I met him at the bar,” says Bucky, and hates how that deflates Nat, just a little bit. “He came in with his friend, looking for a bathroom. She had food poisoning, and we caught up while… while she shat her brains out,” says Bucky.

Clint chuckles.

“So what happened next?” demands Natasha. “Tell me everything, start from the beginning.”

So Bucky tells her everything; tells her about how Steve remembered him right away, and how it had taken Bucky a moment to place his face; how Steve had followed around Bucky like a shadow back when they were in high school; how big and tall Steve had grown; how Steve had taken Bucky out for a fancy meal. He stops the story at the point where Steve kissed him outside his apartment, not knowing how to articulate how awkward the aftermath of the first date was.

“And then you guys banged, right?” asks Clint, finishing off his beer. Clint’s grinning; it’s been so long since he’s seen a genuine smile on Clint’s face, Bucky realizes.

Bucky grunts in a noncommittal sort of way, letting them come to their own conclusions. The truth is just so much more complicated than Bucky knows how to put into words.

“So wait, how many times have you seen each other?” asks Natasha, brows furrowed.

“Two,” says Bucky. “One date and one… one booty-call,” he says, quietly. He winces, physically winces at the shout of joy Clint lets out. Clint claps Bucky on the back, grinning wildly. Natasha laughs out loud, hugs Bucky around his mid-section — after a moment, he hugs back. He’s surprised when he realizes he’s smiling as well.

“This is so fucking excellent,” says Clint, clapping Bucky on the back again. He’s beaming.

“It’s not terrible, I guess,” says Bucky, but he’s smiling as well.

“That’s it, we’re eating brownies,” says Natasha, standing up. “Before dinner. Fuck it,” she says, throwing her hands up. “Bucky got laid.” She gets up and goes to the kitchen. “Clint, help me,” she orders from the kitchen, and Clint gets up, follows her.

Heart beating fast, Bucky pulls out his phone. Nothing from Steve, but that was to be expected. Steve would leave it to Bucky to reach out first.

He types:

> _Sorry I left the way I did this morning. Guess I kinda freaked out again._

and hits send before he can regret the decision.

He stands up and walks into the kitchen; Clint and Natasha are feeding each other brownies, laughing around each others’ fingers. Natasha sees Bucky and approaches him with brownie in her hand and a determined glint in her eye.

“Wait, what?” says Bucky, backing up, nervously. “ _Arrrff_ ,” he says, as his mouth is stuffed with fresh-from-the-oven brownie. He swallows. “That’s good, wow,” he says, and grabs Nat’s hand, as she giggles. He licks Nat’s fingers, getting the still-warm chocolate goop off of them.

Nat kisses Bucky’s cheek, and then throws her arms around Clint, kisses him smack on the mouth.

Bucky’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and his heart leaps into his throat. It’s Steve, has to be, he thinks to himself. He leaves the kitchen, leaves Natasha and Clint to their mini make-out session, and pulls out his phone — yep, Steve’s calling.

“Hey,” he grunts, walking to Natasha’s guest bedroom, closing the door behind him. He loves Nat and Clint, but he doesn’t want them to overhear this.

“Hi yourself,” says Steve, voice kind.

“Sorry,” says Bucky, wishing he had the ability to form sentences that consisted of more than one word.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” says Steve, firmly, and Bucky wants to cry with relief. “Just… next time…” Steve starts.

“Yeah?” asks Bucky, nervous again.

“Next time, maybe communicate a little more?” asks Steve. Bucky can practically hear him bite his lip.

“Yeah, sorry,” says Bucky, closing his eyes. He leans on the wall, resting his forehead on the wallpaper, takes a deep breath. “I just… find it hard, sometimes. To… to be open.”

“That’s okay!” says Steve, quickly. “You don’t need to be super open. We’ll get there,” says Steve, and Bucky feels like crying with joy, because Steve thinks there’s somewhere to get, which means Steve thinks there’s going to be a _future_. “Just don’t shut me out, that’s all I ask,” says Steve, and Bucky nods, furiously.

He clears his throat and says “Yeah, okay,” when he realizes Steve can’t actually see him nod.

“So what are you doing right now?” asks Steve, and his voice is light, joyful; like he too can’t believe this is actually happening.

“Uh, hanging with my friends Clint and Natasha,” says Bucky. “Natasha served with me in Afghanistan, and Clint’s her boyfriend. They’re actually calling me back,” says Bucky. He can hear Nat’s footsteps draw nearer as she comes to presumably pull him back into the kitchen.

“I’ll let you go, then,” says Steve, and it could just be Bucky, but Steve sounds a little disappointed to be saying goodbye.

“Bye, Steve,” says Bucky, softly. They hang up, just as Nat opens the door.

“Was that him?” she asks, excitedly.

“Yeah,” says Bucky, grinning. He’s happy, he can’t help himself.

“This is the best present you’ve ever given me, радость,” she says, clasping her hands with joy. “Come on, we’re going to watch something while we eat dinner. Your choice. Star Wars? We can watch Star Wars, if you’d like,” says Natasha, grinning.

 

* * *

 

Four hours later, Clint is lying on the couch, fast asleep. Natasha lies on top of him, her head on his chest, watching Vader yell at Luke that he is his father; her eyes are drooping shut, but she’s making an effort to keep them open. Bucky sits next to his best friends, smiling happily as Luke screams “noooooooo!” into the void.

The credits roll and Bucky realizes that for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t feel the urge to get drunk.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I _fell in love_ with writing Clint in this chapter, and I just love Nat and Clint's relationship so much that I think I'm going to write a oneshot in this verse explaining how they get together. Like, if I ever get brain froze with any of my other fics, that might be a project I embark on. Any interest?
> 
> Also, there will be so much more Sam you don't even know, y'all. So much more. Tell me what you liked about this chapter on tumblr and in the comments!


	4. The Second Goddamn Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky try going out on an actual date again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick one; kind of the second part to chapter 3. Again, all this fluff. I didn't know I could write fluff. Apparently I can. 
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy!

They schedule their second date for Sunday — a full week after their first. It can’t be helped; Bucky is working this weekend, and it doesn’t make sense to try and squeeze a proper date in on Friday or Saturday, so Sunday it is.

Bucky doesn’t see the need for a real, sit-down date, to be perfectly honest. He tells Steve as much, over the phone on Friday morning as he’s walking to the bar. He’s working a double tonight.

“Nah, we’re going out,” says Steve, in a tone that suggests he will brook no opposition.

“But why? We can just, you know, hang at yours,” says Bucky. “We already did the sex part, you don’t need to keep wooing me,” he says, laughing.

“Oh, but I do,” says Steve, dreamily.

Bucky blushes, and feels the urge to hide, even though he knows Steve can’t see him.

“You’re a ridiculous human being, I hope you know that,” says Bucky, when he recovers.

Steve laughs, and the conversation ends, and Bucky feels lighter than he has in months.

The feeling only carries him so far into the weekend. By the end of his shift on Saturday, Bucky has broken up three bar fights, kicked out at least ten people, handed out permanent bans to at least six of the most violent offenders. He falls back on the couch when he finally gets back to his apartment, a headache raging. He pops a few ibuprofen, and starts to count up his tips from the weekend — he’s pleased when he sees he has a little over two hundred. It’s nothing, comparatively; he knows what he could be making at a real bar, but for this bar? It’s pretty good. It’ll give him enough to finance his date with Steve, at least. (He’s quite determined to pay, this time. He _definitely_ will take Steve somewhere cheaper than a French restaurant, but he’s still going to pay.)

Bucky strips and lies down on his couch to go to bed, but finds he can’t sleep. The thing that Bucky always found about bartending is that no matter where he’s worked, it’s always impossible to fall asleep right after a busy shift. Doesn’t matter when the shift ends, doesn’t matter if he’s working at his current bar or the terrible yuppie restaurants he tended bar for when he was in college, he always, _always_ needs an hour or so for his heart to stop racing before he can get to sleep. He sighs and sits up, pulling the bottle of bourbon and his rocks glass out from under the coffee-table.

He sips the whiskey and feels his insides quiet a little; just a little. He wonders if the anxiety he’s been feeling this weekend is about his big date with Steve tomorrow, or if subconsciously, he’s worried about his money issues and what he’s going to do about Rumlow and next month’s increased rent.

He wonders, briefly, if the last bar-fight he was involved with has anything to do with the way his heart is thumping in his chest — some d-bag biker had been harassing a younger female patron, and the dude actually swung at Bucky when Bucky told him to get out. Bucky had seen red, and he doesn’t remember what happened next very well, only that the biker’s friends had to pull him off the biker, who somehow escaped the bar with only a broken nose.

Bucky can’t help but think of what Natasha would say if she knew he was getting violent with his customers; disapproval wouldn’t even begin to cover it. Worst of all, she’d say something about post-traumatic stress disorder, and about how he needs to get a therapist.

Bucky opens his mouth and tips back the glass — he tries to allow the bourbon to fall directly into his throat, bypassing his taste buds all together. He’s not in a mood to taste his liquor. He repeats the procedure, and repeats it again.

He finally feels himself drift off to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Bucky waits outside the burger joint, hands in his pockets, trying not to feel foolish. Steve’s almost ten whole minutes late — Bucky has so little experience being the not-tardy one that he has no idea what to do with himself. He wonders if he should text Steve, just to let him know he’s here — he decides to wait another few minutes before bothering him.

Just as he pulls his phone out, Steve arrives, breathing hard. He looks like he’s jogged here. “Sorry, a student held me back,” he says, apologetically. “Wanted to contest her grade with me. On a Sunday. Ridiculous,” he says, shaking his head.

“That’s fine!” says Bucky, putting his phone away. He smiles shyly at Steve, who looks goddamn amazing, as usual. He’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt, same as Bucky, but the clothes look like they were moulded onto Steve — they’re tight, like a second skin, and Bucky feels vaguely self-conscious for the way his clothes hang off his frame.

“Wait, where are my manners? So glad to see you,” says Steve, and makes to kiss Bucky on the cheek. Bucky turns his head at the exact same moment, and Steve accidentally kisses Bucky on the lips; there’s a brief pause as Steve realizes what he’s done. He leans in again, pecks Bucky on the lips again.

“You too,” murmurs Bucky, feeling warm and fuzzy. “Wanna go in?”

“Sure,” says Steve, and he follows Bucky inside to the burger joint, where they get a small table. A waitress comes and takes their orders. She brings them two beers.

“How’d you find this place?” asks Steve.

“Um, Natasha’s taken me here before,” says Bucky. “Tried and true,” he says, taking a sip of beer. _And cheaper than anything Steve might have chosen_ , but he doesn’t say that. “So wait, you’re teaching?” asks Bucky, frowning. “You have students?”

“I’m a teaching assistant,” says Steve. “I do everything but give the lectures. I’m TA-ing an intensive Intro to Sociology course over the summer, just to pay the bills.”

“That’s really cool,” says Bucky. “All those kids must have crushes on you,” he says, a little wickedly. He loves the blush that rises on Steve’s cheeks.

“Yeah,” mutters Steve. “It’s actually a little frustrating, these girls keep me past the end of my office hours, asking all these personal questions. I’ve had to give several speeches about maintaining boundaries over the years.”

Bucky melts a little. “I wonder what that’s like,” says Bucky. “Having a younger student have a crush on you.” He grins at Steve, and Steve smiles back, a little sheepishly.

“You know, you never, not once, told me to fuck off,” says Steve. “Even though I honestly deserved it. I am profoundly grateful.”

“Nah, I just never knew how to handle you,” says Bucky, honestly. “I didn’t want to crush you. You were so little, you might not have recovered.”

Steve laughs. “That’s so freaking sweet,” says Steve, eyes sparkling. “Is it wrong that that makes me fall for you just a little harder?” he asks, and then looks embarrassed.

Bucky looks down, but he can’t keep the smile from his face.

“Natasha and Clint can’t wait to meet you,” says Bucky, for want of something to say.

“Really?” says Steve, looking excited.

“Yeah, I told them about you and they were so excited, it was a little ridiculous,” says Bucky. He feels a little uncomfortable for talking about himself, and is relieved when the waitress comes with enormous burgers, effectively distracting Steve.

They chow down. Bucky wants to laugh at how Steve groans around the burger. “Better than the filet mignon?” he asks.

Steve laughs, burger still in his mouth. “Both, both are good,” he says, when he’s able to speak again.

When the check comes, there’s an extended fight over who pays the bill. Bucky feels a little foolish that he assumed Steve would let Bucky have his way on this, feels unprepared for the depth of Steve’s obstinence. In the end, Steve pays only for his half, and Bucky is only a little ashamed to put his crumpled, beer-soaked twenty next to Steve’s crisp bill from the ATM.

They take the subway back to Steve’s place; they walk back from the station hand-in-hand. Steve seems happier than Bucky’s ever seen him, and Bucky’s face hurts from smiling so much.

“Sam?” yells Steve, as they enter Steve’s apartment. No one answers. “Guess he must be out,” Steve muses, toeing off his shoes.

“Roommate?” guesses Bucky. He takes his shoes off as well.

“Yeah,” says Steve. “Sam Wilson, from high school. You know him.”

“I do?” asks Bucky, blankly.

“Well, he was in my grade, so you probably don’t remember him,” says Steve, pouring two glasses of water. He offers one to Bucky. “He went to a few Gay-Straight Alliance meetings, but he was pretty closeted, back then. Came out later than I did, actually.”

“Huh,” says Bucky, taking a sip of water.

“It was before Don’t Ask Don’t Tell was repealed, and he joined up right after high school, so it was a while before he could be honest about his sexuality.”

“So did you two ever… you know…” asks Bucky, awkwardly.

“Me and Sam?” asks Steve, smiling. “Nah. We both like men, but he’s like a brother to me.” Steve puts the water down, walks over to Bucky, touches his face, tenderly. He kisses Bucky, long and sweet, and Bucky kisses back, still clutching his empty water glass.

“Bedroom?” says Steve, and Bucky grunts his assent. His heart is pounding fast, he wishes he had had another drink at the restaurant. He isn’t nearly drunk enough for this.

Steve closes the door behind Bucky, and takes a moment to look at him; appraise him. Bucky stands in the center of Steve’s room, at a loss. He grips his metal arm awkwardly; tries to think of something to do or say, something to make him a more attractive center of attention, and fails.

“We don’t have to do anything, you know,” says Steve, gently. Bucky feels like he’s failed, somehow.

“I want to do things. I want to do everything,” says Bucky, automatically. He wants to groan; is irritated at how desperate he sounds.

“Me too,” says Steve, keeping his distance. “But you’re clearly uncomfortable, and I don’t take what we did in the past as consent for anything we do now. There are no expectations, here.”

Bucky laughs, shortly. He’s frustrated, not by Steve, but by his own limitations. He runs his hands through his hair. “No expectations? I feel like there should be at least some expectations,” he says.

“I didn’t mean I’m not looking forward to doing physical stuff with you,” says Steve, quirking a smile. “I’m more than looking forward to it, trust me. I’m just saying… all in due time, Bucky. Look, why don’t we just watch some TV together?”

Bucky smiles, incredulously. “What, like The Simpsons?”

“Sure, man,” says Steve. “Whatever you want.” He sits down on his bed. and Bucky gingerly takes a seat next to him, and Steve grabs his laptop; pulls up one of those illegal streaming sites. (“If it was on Netflix, we’d watch it on Netflix,” says Steve, apologetically, and Bucky loves how Steve feels guilty over internet piracy, the most benign crime ever created.)

The intro plays; that familiar saxophone riff, and Steve rearranges himself so that he’s lying down on the pile of pillows that are on his bed, the laptop on his stomach. He pats the spot next to him, and Bucky goes to Steve silently, stretches out alongside of him. Steve shifts the laptop so it’s lying on both of them, and they watch the episode, but Bucky’s barely paying attention. He’s on fire everywhere his body touches Steve’s.

The episode ends, and Bucky can’t stand it anymore; he tips Steve’s chin with his metal hand, reaches over to him, and kisses him softly.

Steve kisses back, cautiously, and Bucky’s heart is in his throat; he’s going to cry, he’s never experienced anything as beautiful as this before in his life. They kiss, and kiss, and kiss, and Bucky feels dizzy with happiness.

Steve pulls back a little, rests his forehead against Bucky’s. “This is okay?” he asks, tentatively.

“Yeah,” says Bucky, and kisses Steve again, before cuddling in close to him, sticking his face in Steve’s neck, kissing over the fading mark he left a week before. He breathes in Steve, feels the heat radiate from his body, nuzzles into the unexpected softness of the skin he finds there. Steve throws his arm around Bucky, draws him in close.

Steve mutters something, something in Arabic. Bucky’s never regretted his lack of language skills more.

“Polyglot,” he murmurs into Steve’s neck, and Steve laughs.

“A little,” he says, kissing Bucky’s temple. “I speak decent Spanish too, did I mention that?”

“Christ, you overachiever,” says Bucky, smiling into Steve’s skin. “This feels so good,” says Bucky, forgetting himself for a moment.

“Stay,” says Steve, kissing Bucky again.

“Okay,” says Bucky. “I’ll stay.”

 

* * *

 

Morning comes, and Bucky is surprised to find himself still in Steve’s bed. Steve is like a furnace next to him, and Bucky leans into the heat; let’s himself be warmed, like a cat on a radiator. Steve stretches awake, his eyes flutter open. The first thing he sees is Bucky staring back at him; a smile curls on his face.

“We slept in our clothes,” says Bucky, careful to aim his mouth away from Steve — they never brushed their teeth last night either. He’s sure his breath is poison.

“I slept in my contacts,” says Steve. He blinks rapidly. “Come on, we might as well get up,” says Steve, yawning and looking at the clock on his nightstand. “Grab an hour or so before I have to get ready for work.”

Bucky sits up. Steve is already out of bed, taking his jeans off — Bucky averts his eyes, not wanting to stare at Steve’s muscled legs.

“I have sweats, if you want ‘em,” says Steve, and Bucky slides out of bed. Steve hands him a neatly folded pair of grey sweatpants and Bucky slides them on.

“They don’t fit,” says Bucky. They don’t, not really. They’re slightly loose on Bucky, and Bucky feels a little embarrassed.

“You kidding?” says Steve. “You look hot,” he says, and Bucky blushes.

“Liar,” says Bucky.

“I like seeing you in my clothes,” says Steve, softly. It’s Steve’s turn to blush.

Bucky doesn’t protest the sweatpants any further.

They go to the bathroom, brush their teeth side-by-side. Steve makes coffee and goes to get the paper — they actually get the physical New York Times, for fuck’s sake; what kind of millennials live in this house? — and hands Bucky the front page.

Bucky pretends to read — he honestly hasn’t read a full newspaper article in years — instead watches Steve as he busies himself in the arts section, happily absorbed in an article about Hamilton, whatever that is. It’s oddly domestic, and Bucky feels light, like he’s going to float away.

The coffeemaker gurgles, and Steve gets up to pour two cups. The front door opens and Sam Wilson enters, sweaty and panting from his run.

“Hey man,” says Steve, in greeting. He places a cup of coffee in front of Bucky, along with a small carton of half and half. Bucky pours a liberal amount of cream into his coffee and tries to look nonchalant; he is intensely aware that he is being examined. “Want coffee?” Steve asks Sam.

“Sure,” says Sam. “This the famous Bucky?” he says, and it could just be Bucky, but Sam doesn’t sound particularly warm.

“In the flesh,” says Bucky. He glances at his metal arm. “Well, sort of,” he says with a grin.

Sam doesn’t acknowledge the joke. Bucky doesn’t blame him. It was terrible.

“You probably don’t remember me,” says Sam. “Sam Wilson,” he says, stretching out his hand for Bucky to shake.

Bucky takes it. “Bucky Barnes,” he says.

Sam continues to not smile. “Oh, I know,” he says, and is that a hint of menace in his tone? “This one’s only been talking about you for the last ten years,” he says, nodding at Steve.

Bucky honestly doesn’t know what to say to that.

“Sam,” says Steve, warningly. He puts a cup of coffee in Sam’s hands.

“So,” says Sam, sipping his coffee. “You’ve definitely changed since high school.”

“Afghanistan,” says Bucky, bluntly. He hopes Sam is just talking about the arm.

Sam seems to soften, just a tad. “My Riley, he’s in the Helmand Province,” he says.

“Camp Leatherneck?” asks Bucky.

“Yeah,” says Sam. “We both were there. He signed up again, I didn’t.”

“That must be hard,” says Bucky. He looks at Steve. “You never told me Sam was a marine.”

“Yeah, he’s kind of a rock star,” says Steve. He walks over to Sam, kisses him on the cheek, fondly. Sam bats Steve away, but he looks happy enough to be receiving the affection.

“Hoo-rah,” says Bucky, and Sam rolls his eyes. “Semper fi, etcetera,” says Bucky, smiling.

“What branch were you?” asks Sam.

“Army. 107th Infantry, based in Bagram,” says Bucky. “Ran support missions for the Afghans. Got blown up on my second tour,” he says, once again gesturing at his arm.

“I’m sorry,” says Sam. “I work at the VA,” he says. “I help run support groups for disabled veterans. You might want to look into it,” he says, seriously.

“Nah,” says Bucky, immediately. He knows how lucky he is, to have gotten a Stark prosthetic so easily. The waiting list on these babies is over two years, as of now. He doesn’t have anything to complain about, not like the broken vets who drink at his bar. “But thanks for the offer,” he adds, quickly.

Steve makes pancakes while Sam hits the shower. Sam sings — he’s loud, and they can hear him from the kitchen — and Steve hums along with him. He moves his body to the non-existent beat, and Bucky watches him move his hips. Bucky is still pretending to read the paper, but isn’t even making an effort — the words swim before his eyes every time he tries to focus.

“What’s on deck for today?” asks Bucky.

“Class I’m TA-ing,” says Steve. “Then I’ve got to get some reading done for my thesis. And then… nothing,” he says, looking back at Bucky with a suggestive grin. “You’re working tonight, right? Maybe I should come hang out at your bar,” he says.

Bucky grips the newspaper harder. “No,” says Bucky. “I mean… It’s not a great place to hang out,” he says, hoping Steve won’t press.

“Really? But you work there,” says Steve. “I want to see you in action.” He’s frowning slightly as he deposits a pancake onto Bucky’s plate.

“You can see me in action some other time,” says Bucky, praying Steve won’t insist. He has next to no desire to mix up his worlds — the fact that Steve and Bucky had to reunite in his bar in the first place was hard enough.

“Okay,” says Steve. “It’s your call.” Bucky breathes a sigh of relief.

They eat their pancakes in companionable silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note: as far as I can figure out, the 107th neither is stationed in Afghanistan, nor actually exists anymore. I made some shit up, sue me. I figured it would be okay, given how important the 107th is to Captain America canon.


	5. The Gang Goes to a Club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Steve meets Clint and Natasha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun with this chapter. There might be too much porn, but who cares, right? Not I.

After that night, Steve and Bucky fall into a cautious arrangement. It starts when Bucky comes over to crash after work, a yawning Steve coming to the door at four in the morning to let him in, Bucky sleeping in after Steve leaves for class. Soon, Bucky is spending his days off with Steve in a haze of easy domesticity; Bucky will lie on Steve’s bed and watch TV on his phone while Steve gets his readings done. They cook dinner together, they do the dishes together (Steve washes and Bucky dries), they fall asleep in each other’s arms.

The only thing missing, it seems, is sex. Bucky is frustrated at himself; frustrated for not being able to ask for it, not being able to initiate contact. He knows that’s the only thing holding Steve back — or at least he hopes it is. They kiss, they cuddle; but Steve’s hands don’t stray past Bucky’s waist, ever. And Bucky is so scared of fucking up what they have, he doesn’t have the guts to come on to Steve the way he so desperately wants to, the way he did all those weeks ago. Bucky is terrified that the longer this dry spell lasts, the more solidified it will become; the more it will freeze in place.

He thinks about saying something one evening, when they’re watching TV in the living room together. Steve has his arm slung around Bucky, his feet are up on the coffee table. He is absorbed in the show they’re watching; it’s funny, but Bucky is more interested in watching Steve; in the way the light from the television screen reflects on Steve’s face, on the way his eyes light up when Julia Louis-Dreyfus says something sarcastic and biting.

He rests his head on Steve’s shoulder, heart beating fast. Bucky doesn’t know how to start this conversation — how is Bucky supposed to let his insanely attractive GQ model-esque maybe-boyfriend know that Bucky is feeling unwanted and undesirable? Steve kisses Bucky’s forehead absently, eyes still trained on the television. The problem, Bucky thinks, is that they’ve slid into the kind of easy companionship experienced only by couples who have been together for years. They seem to have skipped over the can’t-keep-my-hands-off-you phase of their relationship; they’ve landed firmly in a platonic zone that Bucky is scared of getting trapped in.

The episode ends, and Steve is wiping tears of laughter away. He turns to Bucky. “Want to put another one on?” he asks.

“Nah,” says Bucky, automatically.

“Something wrong?” asks Steve, looking a little worried. “You seem off.”

“I’ve been thinking,” says Bucky, nervously.

Steve switches the TV off, and turns to Bucky. “Okay,” he says. “What have you been thinking about?”

Bucky stares at Steve for a moment, wide-eyed. “Why don’t we go out anymore?” blurts Bucky, losing his nerve at the last moment.

“Oh!” says Steve, looking surprised, and a little relieved. “We can go out!”

“We can?” asks Bucky.

“Yeah! To be honest, I’m kind of a homebody at heart, but we do live in the greatest city on earth; might as well enjoy it a little,” says Steve, grinning.

“You?” says Bucky, skeptically. “A homebody?” His heart is pounding, he is disappointed in himself for dodging the real question so effectively.

“Well, you know,” says Steve, a lazy grin on his face. “I’m a homebody when there’s someone nice to spend time with at home. Otherwise I wander.”

“You’re not a homebody, you’re a nester,” Bucky accuses him, smiling. “You’re nesting with me.”

“Can you blame me?” says Steve. He lifts Bucky’s hands to his lips, gives his fingers a little kiss. Bucky’s heart skips a beat. “I’d nest with you forever,” says Steve. His eyes widen in something that looks like panic when he realizes what he just said.

Bucky chuckles, suddenly uncomfortable. “So, where do you want to go out?” he asks.

“Hmm…” Steve muses. “How about a gay bar?” he suggests. He leans over, kisses Bucky on the lips.

“Really?” asks Bucky, laughing. He hasn’t been to a gay bar since college.

“Why not?” asks Steve. “I think I want to watch you dance.”

Bucky blushes and smiles. He feels shy.

“Hey, why don’t we invite Natasha and Clint?” asks Steve, suddenly.

“What, you want to invite my straightest friends to a gay club?” asks Bucky, confused.

“I want to meet them,” says Steve. “It might be fun. Also, I’d pay to see Clint dancing to Lady Gaga.”

Bucky laughs. “Yeah, I’d like to see that too.”

 

* * *

 

“Hello, hello,” says Natasha, opening the door, reaching up to kiss Bucky on the cheek. “You’re on time, that’s impressive,” she says, laughing. “Come in!” She swings the door wide, and Bucky and Steve enter Natasha’s apartment.

“I’m always on time,” Bucky protests, and it’s funny because of how true it isn’t. “You look stunning, Nat,” he says. She does. Her hair is wavy and gorgeous, and she’s wearing this tight little red dress that ends mid-thigh. She smiles at Bucky and winks.

Natasha turns to Steve. “This the new boyfriend?” says Natasha, sternly.

“Uh. Yeah,” says Bucky, trying not to blush. It’s the first time anyone has ever referred to Steve as his boyfriend; the first time Bucky’s ever acknowledged that term. Steve glances at Bucky, surprise written on his face. “Natasha Romanov, meet Steve Rogers. Steve, meet Nat,” says Bucky, a little gruffly.

“So nice to meet finally you,” says Steve, with a big smile.

“Likewise,” says Natasha, looking at Steve closely, inspecting him.

“Great, introductions are over,” says Bucky, clapping his hands. “Clint!” he says, loudly. “Beer me!”

Clint appears from the kitchen, and hands over a cold beer to Bucky. “Hey man,” he says in greeting, taking a sip of his own beer. His eyes widen in shock when he sees Steve. “Holy shit,” says Clint, looking Steve up and down. “Bucky, you didn’t tell me you were dating an actual Ken doll,” says Clint.

Steve huffs out a laugh. He looks at the ground, palms the back of his neck, awkwardly. Bucky grins, and twists off the cap to his Bud. He takes a swig. He’s enjoying this, Bucky realizes.

“Seriously, dude,” says Clint, sounding impressed. He claps Bucky on the back. “Congratulations.”

“Shut up, Clint,” says Natasha, smoothly. She hasn’t taken her eyes off Steve for a second.

“Yup,” says Clint, acknowledging the order. He gives Steve a mini-salute and goes to the living room to watch TV.

“So, Steve,” says Natasha. “Who are you, where did you come from, what do you do for a living, and why should I trust you?” she asks. She smiles serenely, like those were all perfectly normal questions to fire at a person you’ve never met before.

Steve laughs, and Bucky falls just a little more in love with him for not being intimidated by Natasha. “Well,” says Steve, eyes sparkling. “I’m Steven Grant Rogers, I’m from Brooklyn, I’m a grad student at City College, and I like your friend Bucky very much,” he says, all in one breath.

“Hmm,” says Natasha. “Sit,” she says, directing Steve to the kitchen table. Steve sits, automatically. He seems to know who’s in charge, and Bucky is profoundly grateful Steve isn’t challenging Natasha’s authority. Natasha leans back on the table, examining Steve with an unreadable expression on her face, like he’s one of her perps.

“What do you study?” she asks, finally.

“Social work,” says Steve. “I’m just TA-ing a class right now, but I have two semesters left, and then I’ll join the workforce.”

“You want to be a social worker?” asks Natasha.

“Or work for an advocacy organization,” says Steve. “There are some really good ones in this city, working in poverty and social justice issues. I like hands-on work but I also feel like I have a lot to contribute to the policy discussion.” Bucky is impressed. He knew Steve was smart, he knew he was passionate, but he didn’t know the extent. He feels a little foolish for never asking Steve anything specific about his work.

“A do-gooder,” says Natasha. She smiles, without warmth. “A bleeding heart.”

Steve smiles nervously. “Um. Yeah, I guess,” he says, looking a little perturbed, for the first time since the questioning began. Bucky feels a pang of nerves. He knows Natasha well enough to know that she is playing a role — she’s bad cop, right now — but Steve doesn’t know enough about her to know that.

“Go easy on him, babe,” says Clint, who has turned the television off and joined them. This is apparently more entertaining than The Honeymooners, or whatever the fuck Clint was just watching. “Hey Steve, you want a beer?” he asks, kindly. _And here’s good cop_ , thinks Bucky, wanting to groan in frustration. He loves his friends, he just wishes they weren’t so… over-the-top.

“Sure,” says Steve, smiling at Clint. Clint disappears into the kitchen.

“Bucky tells me you’re a detective,” Steve says to Natasha. Bucky blinks. _Interrogating the interrogator_ , he thinks. _Not bad, Steve._

“Seven year veteran of the force,” says Natasha, in a tone that very much reads _don’t fuck with me_. Bucky wouldn’t be surprised if she bared her teeth at him.

“Bucky also tells me you work sex crimes,” says Steve, gently. “You guys do incredible work. I’ve seen it up close.”

Natasha is thrown; Bucky can tell. Bucky tries to not feel smug, and fails.

“Well, I’m sold,” says Clint, handing Steve his beer. “Steve, welcome to the family.”

“Clint!” says Natasha, frustrated. She’s trying not to smile.

“Okay, _now_ are we done with the interrogation?” asks Bucky, grinning.

Natasha throws her hands up. “Fine,” she says. “Steve has my conditional approval. But the second you fuck up,” she says, glaring at Steve, “you’re out of here.”

“Fair enough,” says Steve, smiling at her. He holds out his hand for Natasha to shake; she takes it. Steve breaks out into a broad grin, and Natasha tries to hide her own; she fails.

“Okay, enough of this,” says Clint. “Who wants tequila? I’ve got lime and salt set up.”

“Training wheels?” says Bucky, skeptically. “What are we, in a sorority?”

“Hey, this is my first time ever going to a gay club, figured I should drink something that wasn’t beer,” says Clint, shrugging. “And I don’t particularly like tequila, so we’re going to mask the taste as much as possible.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but taps out salt on his hand just like everyone else. He licks the salt, takes the shot, bites into the lime, relishes the burn.

A comfortable feeling is settling into Bucky’s stomach, spreading through his limbs. He’s not particularly drunk — his tolerance is far too high for that — but the tequila and the beer combined with what he drank before he came to Nat’s: he could reasonably be called tipsy, at this point. He knows he needs another few shots to really solidify the feeling. There’s a real question if he can get away with having them, though. He’s surprised that Nat and Clint have been comfortable with letting him drink this much. _It’s probably because of Steve_ , realizes Bucky. _They probably don’t want to make me out to be an alcoholic in front of Steve._ He tries to put the thought out of his head.

Steve chokes a little when he takes his shot, and Bucky pats his back. Steve looks at Bucky, gratefully. His eyes are shining with excitement, his lips are ruby red; there’s a fine sheen of stubble on Steve’s face. Clint has gone into the kitchen to get another beer; Natasha is in the living room putting Spotify on the TV; Steve looks around, notices they’re alone. He pulls Bucky in with a hand on the collar of his shirt and kisses him hard; kisses Bucky like he hasn’t in weeks.

Bucky feels a pull in his lower gut. Desire thrums through him. Steve kisses him again, fiercely.

“You gonna put on a show for me tonight?” asks Steve, voice low and husky. “You gonna dance for me, baby?”

“Oh my god,” says Bucky, breathlessly. Steve is fucking killing him — Clint’s gonna come back any moment. They’re gonna get caught.

“You didn’t answer my question,” says Steve, mischief dancing in his eyes.

“Yeah,” says Bucky. He whines it, he’s so turned on right now. “Yeah, I’ll dance for you,” he says, trying not to blush.

Clint comes back in and Steve releases Bucky; takes a sip of his beer, like nothing ever happened. He smiles innocently at Bucky, who feels like he’s about to melt into a puddle on the floor.

“Nat, I thought you were DJ-ing this thing,” says Clint, loudly.

“I am, I am,” says Natasha, sounding frustrated. “Can’t get this fucking thing to work. It’s not loading my premium account.”

“Oh, I had a problem with that too,” says Steve. He goes over to Natasha to help her, and Clint follows Steve.

Once he’s alone, Bucky goes straight to the kitchen, where the bottle of tequila is sitting on the countertop. He looks around to make sure no one’s watching, grabs a mug, and pours out a liberal amount — he drinks it all in one go. His eyes water from the sting, but he doesn’t care. The liquor hits, and Bucky’s world goes a little sideways; a little curvy. He smiles lazily, grinning at nothing. The music finally turns on — something by Rihanna, he thinks — and he rinses the mug under warm running water, shakes it out, places it away.

He joins the others in the living room, where the others are already moving to the beat.

 

* * *

 

Natasha walks down the broken sidewalk like a fucking runway model, her heels tapping on the concrete, and Steve can’t help but be impressed. And a little turned on. But mostly impressed. Natasha was everything Bucky said she would be — and a fiercely loyal friend, on top of everything.

Steve thinks he loves her.

“You need to tell me everything, you realize,” says Natasha.

“Sure,” says Steve. Clint and Bucky are walking up front, a little further away. Bucky keeps looking back at Steve and smiling, and Steve’s heart feels like it’s gonna burst. “What do you wanna know?”

“What was Bucky like in high school?” asks Natasha.

“Fucking incredible,” says Steve, automatically. Natasha looks at him with eyebrows raised. “He was a force of nature. One of the best students in our school. He single-handedly created our school’s Gay-Straight Alliance; he organized our school’s antiwar movement.”

“Wait, what?” says Natasha, confused.

“Yeah, he was a baby hippie,” says Steve, laughing. “He used to corner people in the hallways and talk their ears off about how there were no WMDs in Iraq, how Bush was lying about the whole thing. Honestly, I was so surprised when I found out he joined up.”

Natasha looks perturbed. “That’s strange,” she says. “The Bucky I know is pretty much apolitical.”

“Things change, I guess,” says Steve.

“Tell me more,” Natasha orders.

“Well, let’s see. He was gorgeous, of course. Had shorter hair back then. Always smiling. Always so kind to me, even though I was this little freshman punk who wouldn’t leave him alone, ever. All the girls loved him; they all thought it was such a tragedy that Bucky was gay.”

“Bucky’s gay?” says Natasha, looking more confused.

“Well, yeah!” says Steve, laughing. “He was the first out gay guy our high school had ever seen. Out and proud and really, really gay. He was so inspiring to the rest of us queer kids.”

“That’s… wow. I always figured he was bi, or something. He’s been known to fuck women.”

“Bucky fucks women?” asks Steve, amazed. “Holy shit. Things really have changed.”

“Yeah, he never picks anyone good, though,” says Natasha. “Honestly, before you, it was just a string of skanks he found at his bar.”

“Wow,” Steve says. He honestly doesn’t know how to feel about this information. He’s not weirded out, or anything — I mean, Christ, Steve’s bisexual himself — he just never thought of Bucky and women as something that go together. “What was it like, serving with Bucky?” asks Steve, suddenly curious.

“Bucky Barnes might be one of the best soldiers I’ve ever met,” says Natasha, seriously. “I’ve honestly never seen a more talented sniper. Maybe Clint could have him beat, if he ever strayed away from archery. But under pressure? When the enemy is bearing down on you? You pretty much needed Bucky in your corner.”

“I’m not surprised,” says Steve. “Bucky is incredible at everything he does,” he says, firmly.

Natasha makes a noncommittal sound that Steve can’t interpret.

 

* * *

 

“Sorry,” says Steve, to the fourth guy who has approached him tonight. “I’m with someone.” He’s taken off his shirt, is just in his tank top — the heat in the bar was getting to be too much. The guy slinks away and Clint whistles, low and impressed.

“You’re like catnip for gay dudes,” says Clint, taking a sip of his lager. He’s polishing off his fifth or sixth pint, despite his earlier resolution to make this a tequila night.  

“Yeah,” says Steve, resigned. He’s not going to protest it. He knows what he looks like.

Clint says something else, and Steve doesn’t hear him. He’s staring at Bucky, who looks _so fucking good_ in just a long-sleeved tee and skinny jeans. His hair is tied back and it suits the hell out of him; until now, until Bucky, Steve never really understood the appeal of longer hair on men. Bucky’s deep in conversation with Natasha over something, and he’s laughing and animated. Bucky seems loose and free and happier than Steve’s seen in a long, long time.

“Steve? Steve!”

Steve turns around, back to face his conversation partner.  There’s a big smile on Clint’s face, and he claps Steve on the back.

“Man, you are fucking _gone_ on Bucky, aren’t you?” he says, laughing.

“Don’t tell him,” says Steve, feeling a little guilty. But he can’t stop the smile that creeps over him.

Clint looks delighted. “I’m so fucking happy,” he says. “I’m so happy for him, that it’s you. You seem like a really good goddamn person, Steve.”

Steve grins. “I’m not the worst person he could have ended up with, that’s for sure,” he says, and it doesn’t feel like bragging, because it’s true. Steve is perfect for Bucky. He always has been. It’s just taken a decade for them to figure it out.

The song changes, and a rumbling beat shakes the bar.

“Let’s go dance,” Steve hears Natasha say. She grabs Bucky and tries to pull him onto the dance floor — Bucky resists, instead going to the bar, towards Steve.

“Watch my drink?” he asks Steve, and hands Steve his beer. There’s a light in his eyes that wasn’t there yesterday, or the day before. Bucky kisses Steve, and lets himself get pulled back onto the crowded dance floor. He’s moving, he’s dancing like he was built for it, and Steve can’t stop watching, can’t stop looking at the way Bucky grinds to the music. Bucky’s mouthing along to the words, his hips shake to the beat. Natasha moves with him — they’re close, and she turns around, slots herself against him. She snakes an arm around his neck, leans back to kiss his cheek. Bucky shoots a glance over at Steve, almost nervously, like _is this okay_ — and it’s _more_ than okay, Steve thinks. Steve stares back, drinking Bucky up, his eyes dark with want.

Eventually, Bucky untangles himself from Nat and comes back over to the bar; he takes his beer from Steve with a word of thanks. Steve can’t help himself; he reaches out, pushes a few loose strands of hair away from Bucky’s forehead. Before Steve can withdraw his hand, Bucky grabs it, kisses it; he’s staring at Steve with heat in his eyes, and Steve feels molten lava enter his veins. It is nothing, after that, to grasp Bucky by the hips, to pull him close. Their bodies line up, and Steve kisses Bucky deep.

“You looked so fucking hot out there,” Steve whispers into Bucky’s ear.

Bucky looks down, embarrassed. “Liar,” he says.

Steve laughs. “What?” asks Steve, tipping Bucky’s face up to meet his. “You don’t believe me?”

Bucky says nothing, he looks struck.

Steve chuckles. “Can’t wait to get you home. You’ll see.”

Bucky stares at him for a moment, wide-eyed. Then he kisses Steve. He’s holding Steve’s face; he’s bruising Steve’s lip with how hard he kisses him.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” says Bucky, voice deep with lust.

Steve considers. They’ve been at this club for almost two hours; it wouldn’t be all that rude to leave now, to leave Clint and Nat to their own devices. “Okay,” says Steve, grinning at Bucky, taking his hand.

 

* * *

 

This time when Steve slams Bucky up against the wall, he isn’t gentle, he doesn’t restrain himself. Steve kisses Bucky like he’s devouring him, and Bucky kisses back, giving as good as he gets. Steve slots a thigh in between Bucky’s thighs, feels the hardness in between Bucky’s legs; Bucky moans as Steve strokes Bucky’s dick through his jeans.

“You’ve wanted this for weeks, haven’t you?” Steve asks, and how the _fuck_ does he sound so calm, when Bucky is inches from flying apart?

“God, yes,” grunts Bucky, bucking up into Steve’s touch, just trying to get closer.

“Do you have _any_ idea what you looked like? Dancing with Natasha like that?” asks Steve, belligerently. He takes his hand off Bucky’s dick; pushes off Bucky entirely, stares at him with faux-anger.

Bucky makes a sound of disappointment at his sudden lack of Steve; he pouts, tries to go to him but Steve puts a hand on Bucky’s chest, keeping them apart.

“Couldn’t keep my _eyes_ off of you. You were so fucking stunning,” says Steve, and the pressure is growing between Bucky’s ears, a slow whine that can only be dissipated if Steve touches Bucky, if Steve puts his hand back on Bucky’s dick...

“I’m going to fuck you tonight, I think,” Steve muses.

“ _Please_ ,” says Bucky, and Steve finally, _finally_ releases Bucky, lets Bucky fall to Steve’s neck. Bucky kisses Steve there, nuzzles his skin.

“You want that, Bucky?” asks Steve, and Bucky thinks Steve’s losing his composure a little, just a little. “You want me to fuck you, baby? Split you open on my dick?”

That’s when Bucky completely loses it. He tries to unzip Steve’s fly and take out his cock, but Steve won’t let him, he claps restraining hands on Bucky’s forearms. “Tell me you want it, first,” says Steve, voice heated.

“I want it. Please, Steve. I need it,” Bucky babbles. Christ, he’s never been this turned on in his life.

“Then get the fuck on the bed,” Steve orders.

Bucky scrambles onto Steve’s mattress.

“Strip,” says Steve, and Bucky rushes to comply. He doesn’t make a show of taking his clothes off, and any other time he would have felt foolish for his lack of finesse, but tonight there isn’t room in his brain for anything other than the white noise of desire. Bucky lightly strokes himself with his flesh-and-blood hand while his metal one clutches at the sheets; he arches back on the pillows. He can’t help but touch himself, he had no idea Steve was this toppy; this demanding in bed. _Need to feed this man tequila more often_ , he thinks to himself, as Steve strips his tank top off, climbs on top of Bucky.

Steve pushes Bucky’s hand aside and takes over; he strokes Bucky with short, sure strokes. His face is inches away from Bucky’s but he won’t kiss Bucky; it’s absolutely fucking infuriating. Bucky brings his hand around to the back of Steve’s head, grips his hair, tries to pull Steve closer to Bucky’s lips. Steve pulls away, grinning at Bucky.

“That’s how you wanna play, huh?” he says, and Bucky looks at him, frustrated. Steve swats Bucky lightly on the stomach, and Bucky’s ab muscles bunch where he’s been touched. “Gonna spank you raw, one of these days,” Steve mutters, and a fresh flock of butterflies is unleashed in Bucky’s gut.

“Yes please,” says Bucky. And then: “if you keep that up, this isn’t going to last very long.”

Steve immediately stops stroking Bucky’s cock. “How do you feel about blowing me?” asks Steve, kneeling on the bed.

“I feel very good about it,” says Bucky, sitting up. Steve takes out his cock, and moans as Bucky quickly takes Steve all the way in; as he laves Steve’s cock with his tongue. Bucky’s beginning to love Steve’s dick. It’s only the second time they’ve been acquainted, but he loves the weight of it on his tongue, the feel of it pumping in and out of him. Steve falls forward, bracing himself on the wall behind his bed; fucks into Bucky’s mouth, over and over.

Bucky taps Steve’s hip — the universal sign of “enough”, when you have a dick in your mouth — and Steve pulls out, immediately.

“Everything okay?” asks Steve, worried. His dick is red, shining with Bucky’s spit.

“Yeah, just. Fuck me,” gasps Bucky, eyes glazed over. He can’t think in anything but monosyllables.

Steve chuckles. “You’re so impatient.”

“Yeah,” says Bucky, nodding, frantically. “I need it,” he says.

“Hang on,” says Steve, and leans over to the nightstand, withdrawing a condom and lube. He sits back, squeezes out a liberal amount of lube onto his hand, and rubs it warm. Bucky’s eyes practically roll back in his head when Steve reaches down past Bucky’s balls; when he massages Bucky’s hole with a lubed finger. He fucks into Bucky, stretching him with one finger, then two. When Steve finds Bucky’s prostate, Bucky can’t help but cry out with pleasure; he brings his legs up high and places them on Steve’s shoulders and _pushes_ himself down on Steve’s fingers as Steve strokes that gland.

“Easy, cowboy,” says Steve, grinning. He places a hand on Bucky’s lower stomach to still Bucky, and he adds a third finger; spends some more time stretching Bucky out.

“That’s good, that’s enough,” says Bucky, gasping. “Fuck me. Fuck me!”

“You sure?” asks Steve, kissing the inside of Bucky’s knee.

“Yes!” says Bucky. He can’t help but slightly grind down on Steve’s fingers.

Steve rips open the condom wrapper, rolls the condom down on his dick. He lines up, and pushes in. He moves slow — too slow, for how thoroughly Bucky’s been prepped — but Steve clearly doesn’t want to take any chances with Bucky, and even in his lust-addled state, Bucky can appreciate his caution.

Steve bottoms out. Bucky feels so fucking full and Steve is trembling above him with the effort of holding still. “Move?” Bucky pleads, wrapping his arms around Steve’s neck, feeling Steve’s neck muscles tense against Bucky’s wrists.

Steve nods, and starts to pull out. He fucks back in, slowly; still too slowly. Steve groans; he sounds overwhelmed, and Bucky strokes his back, starts to mindlessly shush him; anything to calm Steve down.

Steve pulls out completely, and Bucky feels empty. “I wanna fuck you from behind,” says Steve, and Bucky doesn’t say anything; he just gets on his knees and turns around.

Steve pushes Bucky forward so Bucky falls on his forearms, and then he drapes his body over Bucky’s back, mouthing at Bucky’s shoulder. Steve lines up and pushes into Bucky’s loose, wet hole; bottoms out on the first push with a grunt. Bucky gasps, clutches the sheets, bites the pillow, anything to keep from screaming. Steve shifts the angle a little, draws his foot up onto the bed, and leans back, pulling Bucky up with him. He props Bucky up with a thick arm around Bucky’s chest. He pulls out, pushes in; starts moving faster and faster.

Stars explode behind Bucky’s eyes as Steve hits Bucky’s prostate — Bucky yells out loud, goes limp against Steve and Steve laughs, delighted; he’s childishly impressed with his handiwork. Pressure builds up in Bucky’s upper thighs, spreads throughout his body.

“Steve, ‘m gonna come,” pants Bucky.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Steve growls, and grabs Bucky’s dick, circling it at it’s base. Incredibly, Steve picks up the pace.

“Oh Jesus,” Bucky cries out. He wants to come so fucking bad; he’s never wanted to come this bad in his entire life, and Steve, the fucking bastard, won’t let him. Bucky’s thighs are shaking with the effort of restraining his orgasm, his cock is full and heavy and bobs each time Steve fucks into him. Steve is slick with sweat behind him — their bodies slap against each other; they stick together in the summer heat.

Steve grows erratic and jittery in his movements. He releases Bucky’s cock and Bucky _immediately_ spills over, white-hot pleasure shooting through his limbs. He spurts long and hard onto the sheets; he thinks he shouts as he comes, but isn’t really sure — all he knows is that when it’s over, he goes limp, truly limp; he sags against Steve’s arm.

Steve lets Bucky go, and Bucky falls forward onto the wet patch. Steve pulls Bucky’s hips up, fucks him hard — he’s gripping Bucky’s hips so hard Bucky’s sure he’s going to leave a mark. Bucky is lying cheek down on the sheets, making little “uh” sounds each time Steve fucks into him, and then Steve slows, groans out loud as he comes, pumping the condom full.

Finally Steve withdraws. He strips the condom off, throws it on the floor, and collapses next to Bucky.

“I’m dead,” mutters Bucky against the sheets. “You’ve killed me.”

“Oh no,” says Steve, breathing hard. He sounds like he’s smiling — Bucky can’t see from this angle. “Hope you’ll come back to life for round two,” says Steve.

Bucky sputters with laughter, and pushes himself up to look at Steve. His hair’s fallen out of the bun, he’s got no idea where the hairtie went. He’ll deal with it later. “You better be joking, kid,” says Bucky, voice rough.

Steve laughs again, his eyes sparkle. “Just kidding,” he says. “I couldn’t get it up for another half hour, at least.”

Bucky groans, falling back on the pillows. “Young people stamina,” he says, gruffly.

“Bucky, you’re not even thirty,” says Steve, grinning.

“Well, I feel like an old man,” says Bucky, yawning. “Especially after that,” he says, grinning. “Holy shit, Rogers.”

“Yeah, well,” says Steve, looking smug. “Been planning that for ten years, what can I say.”

“The _mouth_ on you,” says Bucky.

“I get into it,” says Steve, stretching. “I hope you didn’t mind.”

Bucky huffs out a laugh. “Mind? That was the hottest thing I’ve seen in years.”

Steve smiles, and it’s shy, and Steve seems so _young_ right now, Bucky can’t help himself. He scoots over and kisses Steve, soft. Steve kisses back, smiling as he does so.

They fall asleep with their arms around each other.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy the good times while they last....
> 
> (Come hang out with me on [tumblr](http://www.bipolarbuckyy.tumblr.com)!)


	6. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky wake up together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one -- a small coda to Chapter 5. I decided to give everyone some sweetness before the angst starts up for real. 
> 
> (I blatantly lifted from [these tweets](http://imgur.com/a/RGlzC) for this chapter, because: funny.)
> 
> Warnings for homophobia in this chapter, the f-slur. (Sorry, I forgot to warn for this earlier.)

Bucky wakes up naked and alone. There’s a moment of confusion as he wonders where Steve is, and then the aching in his head makes itself known, and all other thoughts fly out the window.

He groans as he sits up, feels the tightness on his stomach of dried semen, a reminder that he fell asleep in his own mess. Bucky groans as he pushes himself out of bed, throws on a pair of jeans. He doesn’t bother with a shirt; he’s far too hungover for that nicety.

Steve is making french toast in the kitchen, humming to himself. He sips at his coffee.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” says Bucky, croaking out the words.

“Morning, sunshine,” says Steve, kissing Bucky on the cheek. “Don’t you look perky this morning.”

“How are you this alive?” asks Bucky, in consternation.

“Didn’t drink that much, that’s how,” says Steve, laughing. His eyes roam over Bucky appreciatively; Bucky doesn’t have the energy to be embarrassed about how he looks.

“Advil. Ibuprofen,” says Bucky, sitting at the kitchen island and covering his face with his hands. “Something.”

“Coming right up,” says Steve, and he pulls a bottle of red pills out from a drawer, places it in front of Bucky with a glass of water. Bucky takes the painkillers gratefully.

Sam enters the kitchen. “I should honestly throw y’all out on the streets,” he says. He looks stern, but there’s a twinkle in his eye. “I have never, _ever_ heard you make more noise in my entire life, Steven Grant Rogers. You woke me up.”

“Oh my god,” says Steve, his ears pinking. He looks _mortified_. “Sam, I’m so sorry, we didn’t think…”

Sam grins, clearly enjoying this. “You sounded like…. like Hodor finding a playboy.”

Steve bursts into laughter, he is bent over with it. Bucky hides his smile behind his hands.

“Bitch, you sounded like the gotdamn industrial revolution, last night. Sounded like you were building a steam engine.” He turns to Bucky. “You too, motherfucker!” he says, laughing, and Bucky is cracking up, he can’t help it.

“Thought there was a banshee in the house, the way this one was howling,” continues Sam, and Bucky is laughing, and it hurts, but he can’t stop laughing. He knows he hasn’t laughed like this in years.

“Thought you were murdering him, I was about to call the police.”

Steve is wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “Yeah, well. Payback for the last time Riley was home on shore leave,” says Steve, grinning.

“Oh, we’re definitely going to have you beat,” says Sam. “One more month, and he’s home.”

“Congratulations,” says Bucky, and is gratified to see Sam shoot him a small smile.

Steve places french toast in front of Bucky, and a mug of coffee, prepared just how Bucky likes it, and Bucky smiles at him.

“Best boyfriend ever,” says Bucky, and tenses when he realizes what he just said. He turns to Steve, who has turned a delicious shade of scarlet. Steve is staring at Bucky, his jaw hangs open in shock. Bucky grins at Steve, eyes soft, and for a moment, no one says anything.

“Stop being so fucking cute,” says Sam, irritated. “Going for a run; you in, Rogers?”

“Yeah,” says Steve. He walks over to Bucky, kisses his temple. “I’ll be an hour, probably,” he says to Bucky. “Sleep, recover a little. Then we’re showering together,” he says, grinning.

“Oh, hell yes,” says Bucky, and kisses Steve on the lips.

Sam groans behind them.

 

* * *

 

Bucky approaches the patio, where Natasha is sitting, reading a book. “Hey,” he grunts.

Natasha doesn’t look impressed. “Half an hour late,” she says, but the accusation is without heat.

“Have to keep up my reputation somehow,” says Bucky. He swings his leg over the railing, earning dirty looks from other brunch-goers, but Bucky can’t find it within himself to care. He sits, joins Natasha.

“Take your sunglasses off, радость,” Natasha murmurs. “Let me see you.”

Bucky complies, squinting in the sun, and Natasha laughs when she sees how bloodshot he is. She shakes her head, and Bucky isn’t sure if she’s disappointed or not. Bucky puts his sunglasses back on.

“We tried to not let you drink that much,” says Natasha.

“Yeah, I was surprised you let me drink at all,” says Bucky, trying not to feel uncomfortable.

Natasha shrugs. “If you won’t make the decision yourself, we can’t force it on you,” she says, simply, and for a moment, Bucky feels fucking awful.

“I’m sorry,” says Bucky, after a moment. “I know I’m a hard person to love. I just want you to know… I’m grateful.”

Natasha laughs, and there’s a tinge of sadness to it. “Oh Bucky, you’re not hard to love. Not at all.”

There’s a lump in Bucky’s throat that wasn’t there before.

The waitress brings Natasha’s food.

“You ordered without me?” Bucky asks with faux-outrage, happy for the distraction.

Natasha cuts up her omelette, shrugging. “That’s what you get for being late, Bucky.”

Bucky settles into his chair. He leans back on, letting his still-drying hair fall back behind him. The sun shines on his face. Everything has slowed down; there seems to be an order to the universe.

“So, why were you late? Too busy fucking Captain America?” asks Natasha, taking a sip of her coffee.

Bucky smiles, and doesn’t answer. Steve and Bucky had jerked each other off in the shower, slow and lazy, kissing as the water dripped down their faces.

“I like him, by the way,” says Natasha. “Good job.”

“He’s wonderful,” Bucky says, voice elsewhere.

“Sorry for being so harsh with him in the beginning of the night,” says Natasha. “Needed to know he was good enough for you.”

Bucky laughs. The very thought of Steve not measuring up to Natasha’s standards was absurd. There was no scale on earth that Steve couldn’t break.

“You need to be careful, радость,” says Natasha. “You’re not being honest with him. You should have heard him talk about you yesterday.”

“What did he say?” asks Bucky.

“Bucky does this, Bucky does that,” says Natasha. “That kid thinks the sun shines out of your ass.”

Bucky laughs again. “I told you he knew me in high school, didn’t I? He’s been nuts about me for a long time.”

“Yes, but Bucky, you’re not in high school, anymore. You’re a man. An adult. Someone who has seen too much, been through too much.”

“What does that have to do with anything,” says Bucky, and it’s not a question, it’s a statement. He sits up straight, but doesn’t meet her eyes; he instead concentrates on the silverware in front of him; fiddles with it.

“Be honest with him about your issues, or you’re going to lose him,” says Natasha.

Bucky says nothing.

 

* * *

 

It’s just the regulars tonight.

Leroy, Mad Max and Janine have ordered a pitcher; they are pouring each other drinks, and Bucky finds he has relatively little to do other than clean, and he doesn’t particularly feel like cleaning. So he leans on the bar, joins in their conversation.

“Bucky, when are you gonna bring a nice girl around here?” asks Janine, smiling shakily at Bucky. “When are we gonna meet your beau?”

Bucky smiles, but says nothing. He busies himself in wiping down the bar.

“How do you know it’ll be a girl?” asks Leroy. “Bucky might like guys,” he says, timidly.

Max laughs. “Naw, Bucky ain’t a queer. They don’t let fags into the military.”

“Yes they do,” says Leroy, quietly. “Since 2013. Obama fixed that law.”

Bucky glances at Leroy, who seems more subdued than usual; more contained.

“Well, if I ever do meet a nice girl, or a nice guy, whatever,” says Bucky. “I sure as hell am not bringing them around to this place, that’s for damn sure.”

“Why not?” asks Janine. “We ain’t that bad.” She looks offended.

“Oh, no,” says Bucky, turning to Janine, and biting his lip. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I think we’d be nice people for your girlfriend to meet.”

“You are, you are,” says Bucky, gently. “I just… like to keep my work and my personal life separate, you know?”

“ _Jesus_ , Janine,” says Max, disgustedly. “Leave the kid alone, he doesn’t want to bring his girlfriend around to this dump, so what?”

“That’s not it,” says Bucky, desperately. Janine’s bottom lip is wobbling dangerously.

“Come on, if you were Bucky, would you bring some sexy girl here, just to look at your ugly mug? She’d get scared and walk out. Or she’d turn to stone, just by lookin’ at you,” says Max, and he laughs.

“You’re a bully, Max Rodansky,” says Janine, quietly. “You’re a bully and a liar.”

“Bucky, be honest with me,” says Max, turning to the bar. “You don’t bring your girlfriend around because of this one, right? I mean this old middle-aged hag, talk about a boner-killer, am I right?”

“Out,” says Leroy, quietly.

Bucky blinks, surprised. That’s what he was about to say.

“ _Y_ _ou_ want me to get out?” says Max, turning to Leroy, incredulous. “You gonna make me, pipsqueak?”

“Yeah, if I have to,” says Leroy. He’s staring straight ahead; he’s gripping his pint glass so hard his knuckles are white.  “I served, you know. Gulf War. I can kick your dumb hippie ass out of here if I have to.”

“Well jeez,” says Max. He stands up, rubbing his arms, awkwardly. He looks somewhat forlorn. “I didn’t even pay my share.”

“Get out!” yells Leroy. He stands, knocks the bar stool over as he does so.

“All right, all right,” says Max, and slinks out of the bar.

It’s a few moments before Leroy calms down enough to right his bar stool — he does so with a grunted apology, and sits down.

“My hero,” says Janine, eyes sparkling.

“He was being rude,” says Leroy. “Rude and mean, and to a lady at that. It ain’t like him.” He polishes off his beer; goes to fill up again, but the pitcher is empty.

Bucky takes Leroy’s pint glass, fills it up at the beer tap. “On the house,” says Bucky, gruffly. “That was a good thing you just did, Leroy.”

Leroy looks delighted and bashful, at the same time. “Yeah, well. Hey, how about some music up in this joint?”

“Yeah!” says Janine, happily. “You got any spare ones for the jukebox, Leroy?”

“Nah,” says Leroy. “All my money’s beer money.”

“Oh, fuck that,” says Bucky. He takes the jukebox remote out of its hiding place above the TV. “Tonight’s a special night; we can do with some free tunes. What do you wanna hear?”

“Something to dance to,” says Janine, standing up. She only wobbles a little. “Something slow.”

“You angling for a dance partner, Janine?” asks Leroy, grinning.

“You bet I am,” says Janine. “After what you just did?” She stands up. “My hero,” she says again.

Bucky fiddles with the remote, types in a song. The piano starts up.

“Elvis?” says Leroy, looking delighted. He starts to sing along. “ _Wise men say, only fools rush in love…_ ” His voice is surprisingly strong.

He takes Janine’s outstretched hand and pulls her close. They move to the music, sweet and slow.

Bucky leans on the bar, rests his chin on his hands, and watches them dance. He smiles, he can’t help it.

Despite everything, despite the beer stains and the fruit flies, despite the bottle of bourbon under his coffee table and the lumpy couch that serves as his bed — Bucky is happy, right now.

This is a good night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit is about to hit the fan! SORRY!!!! Just keep in mind: happy ending, happy ending, happy ending. 
> 
> Come hang out with me on [tumblr](http://bipolarbuckyy.tumblr.com)! Yell at me there, and remember to comment. I am fueled by your comment!


	7. In Which Shit Hits The Fan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the first of the month, and Bucky is short on rent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so, SO FUCKING SORRY. I just. I'm so sorry? Oh my god. Don't kill me. (Come yell at me on [tumblr](http://bipolarbuckyy.tumblr.com).)
> 
> Specific trigger warnings are in the endnotes to this chapter.

Bucky stares at the pile of crumpled bills lying out in front of him, and wonders if he should count again.

$687, total count. He owes Rumlow $800 this month, to make up for what he couldn’t pay last month, but he can’t even cover his usual rent, let alone the extra. Where did it all go?

He bites his lip, tries to blink back tears. He worked plenty this month, but tips were low, lower than they usually were. Bucky did miss several money nights this month, Ivan had insisted on giving them to his spoiled niece who usually worked at Ivan’s _other_ bar — and if Bucky was being absolutely honest with himself, he knew that it was his fault for not complaining, for not sticking up for his hours. Instead, he had relished the extra time with Steve. There’s also the fact that Bucky spent too much this month — if he had just saved his money on that double date, instead of buying round after round of tequila shots for his friends…

He swears and knots his hands in his hair, tugging at his roots. The problem is, he gets alcohol in him and all common sense goes out the window. He had walked into that bar determined to not spend a dime, he knew that what he already had in his system was good enough — except that when the music had started, it clearly wasn’t. He had to get drunker, looser, freer. And then he had remembered how Steve had insisted on paying for everything on their previous dates and… he had lost his head. Shots for everybody.

He knows he’d have at least a hundred more on the table if that night hadn’t happened. He’d be short, but acceptably short. Rumlow wouldn’t have taken it out on him. Not like he was sure to, now.

Bucky feels the shortness of breath coming on, feels the signs of an impending panic attack. Not now. He can’t afford this now. Can’t afford to fall apart. He looks around his apartment, looks for something to help him calm down. Does he have any Xanax left? Nah, he finished the last of it last month. Suddenly, he is overtaken with the desire to speak to someone who can take care of him, who can hold him and tell him it’s all right — Steve. He wants to talk to Steve.

Bucky makes a decision. He gathers up the money, puts it in his wallet, slides the wallet into the back pocket of his jeans. He leaves his apartment, locking it behind him.

 

* * *

 

Bucky rings the doorbell, and steps back, chewing his lip. He counts the seconds, waiting for Steve to answer the door — he’s a little disappointed when Sam answers the door instead.

“Hey Bucky,” says Sam, smiling gently. “Come on in,” he says, and Bucky squeezes past Sam, into the living room.

“Can I get you something? Coffee? Tea?” asks Sam. He’s pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“No thanks,” says Bucky. “Is Steve here?”

Sam shakes his head. “No, he’s at the gym with Wanda. Won’t be back for a few hours, probably.”

Bucky does his best to smile at Sam. “That’s too bad. Will you let him know I stopped by, when he comes back?”

“Sure,” says Sam, and he’s looking at Bucky keenly. _There’s something on his mind_ , Bucky thinks to himself, heart sinking. “Look, why don’t I fix you something,” he says, in a tone that indicates he’s not asking.

“Sure,” says Bucky, automatically, hating this.

“Sit down. Coffee or tea…?” asks Sam, again.

“Coffee,” says Bucky, resigned to his fate.  He sits at the kitchen island.

Sam pours Bucky a cup and places it in front of Bucky — Bucky takes a sip. It goes down like lava; it fuels the fire that’s already raging in his gut.

“How are you, Bucky?” asks Sam, seriously.

“Fine,” says Bucky, automatically. He smiles, and knows he’s not being very convincing, right now.

“Are you really?” asks Sam. He puts his mug down, leans on the kitchen island.

“Yes,” says Bucky, starting to get a little annoyed.

“Tell me something: when did you get home from Afghanistan?” asks Sam.

“Two years ago,” says Bucky. “Maybe three.” His heart is beating fast.

“And other than Stark’s prosthetic, have you received any medical care, whatsoever?”

 _What does that have to do with anything?_ Bucky wonders. “No,” he says. There had been a few follow-up appointments after he had been fitted with the arm — nothing after that.

“Have you received any sort of psychiatric treatment?” asks Sam, gently.

Bucky stands up, abruptly. The stool he had been sitting on wobbles slightly, but doesn’t fall over. “No,” he tells Sam, shortly.

“Whoa,” says Sam, holding his hands out in a pacifying gesture. “I don’t mean to offend, dude,” he says. His tone is slow and measured, like he’s speaking to a rabid dog.

“You haven’t offended me,” says Bucky. His voice sounds distant, like it’s not coming from him.

“Look, I’ll be honest with you,” says Sam. “I work with a lot of vets, a lot of soldiers who have been through the ringer. I’m very experienced with trauma victims.”

“That’s nice,” says Bucky.

“And I look at you, and I see a disaster waiting to happen.”

Bucky opens his mouth, closes it. He doesn’t know what to say.

“I’m not just worried about you, you understand,” continues Sam. “I’m worried about Steve.”

“Why are you worried about Steve?” asks Bucky, automatically.

“I’m worried that you’re going to hurt him, Bucky. If you don’t get help,” says Sam.

Bucky puts his mug down and backs away.

“Bucky, this isn’t personal,” says Sam.

“I have to go,” says Bucky, in a haze. “Tell Steve I say hi.”

“Bucky, come on,” says Sam, eyes wide. “Don’t do this. Talk to me.”

“No,” says Bucky, and he’s surprised at how firmly he says it. “You don’t know me, Sam Wilson,” he says. “You don’t know the first fucking thing about me. Don’t you dare talk to me.”

He leaves the apartment, white noise buzzing in his ears.

 

* * *

 

Rumlow looks at the cash on the table, in as neat a stack as Bucky could make it, and tuts, softly.

“Oh Bucky,” he says, sadly. “I did tell you that it’s more this month, right?”

“You did, Brock,” says Bucky, quietly. He looks at his shoes, hating himself right now.

“I can’t lie, I’m disappointed,” says Rumlow, leaning back in his desk chair. “I know you can do this, if you only exercised a little more financial discipline.”

“I know,” says Bucky, miserably.

“Seven hundred; eight hundred, even — it isn’t that much, for New York. I have tenants paying twice as much as you, and they don’t seem to have a problem with it.”

Bucky finds he can’t say anything. He wills himself to not hyperventilate.

“Well, what are we going to do about this?” asks Rumlow, quietly.

“I don’t know,” says Bucky, hating himself. “What… whatever you want me to do, Brock.”

“Get over here,” says Rumlow, and Bucky goes, hating himself for his automatic obedience.

Rumlow stands up to face Bucky. He looks at Bucky, inspects him. Suddenly, he laughs. He rubs his hands over Bucky’s shoulders, soothingly. “Come on kid, don’t look so blue,” he says, grinning.

Bucky tries to smile at Rumlow; he manages something shaky and pathetic.

“This is going to be _okay_ ,” says Rumlow, tilting Bucky’s chin up to the light. Bucky blinks, trying to dispel the wetness that’s gathered in his eyes. “I’m going to take care of it, okay? Uncle Brock is going to make this go away.” Rumlow kisses Bucky then, his tongue invading Bucky’s mouth. It’s all Bucky can do not to gag. This is the first time Rumlow’s ever kissed him. It feels like a violation, more than anything Rumlow’s ever done to him — the last person to kiss him like that was Steve.

“Brock, please,” says Bucky, hating the way he begs. “If there’s a way we can resolve this without it coming to… that, I’d really appreciate it.”

“Sorry, kiddo,” says Rumlow, giving him a sad smile. “I don’t think there is.”

Bucky clenches his fists, wills himself to take a deep breath. He takes another, and then makes his decision. He starts to get on his knees, but Rumlow stops him.

“Hey, hey,” he says, gently. “We don’t have to do this here, okay?” says Rumlow, kindly. “I’ve been thinking, it might be better if we had a little privacy, what do you think?”

“This office is private enough,” says Bucky, stoutly.

“No, Bucky,” says Rumlow. “You’re going to meet me at my place tonight, at ten.”

“What?” exclaims Bucky, shock coursing through him.

“You’re going to meet me tonight, or you’re going to have to find a new place to live,” says Rumlow, voice hardening.

“I have to work tonight,” says Bucky, desperately.

“Find someone to cover your shift,” says Rumlow, supremely unconcerned. He sits back down in his chair. “I think this is a little more important than one night of work.”

Bucky waits, tries to think of some other excuse, an out — _anything_. He can’t. “Okay,” he whispers, hating himself.

 

* * *

 

Bucky is walking home, back to his apartment, when his phone rings. It’s Steve. He answers it.

“Bucky, Sam just told me what happened,” says Steve, rapidly.

Bucky blinks, in confusion. “Um, hello to you too,” he says.

“Hi,” says Steve, sounding frustrated. “Look, Bucky, we need to talk. I need to explain some things. Where are you, can I come meet you?”

“Now’s not really a good time, Steve,” says Bucky, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ve got a lot on my plate, right now.”

“I need to explain. Sam means well, he really does.”

“I’m sure he does,” says Bucky, wanting this conversation to be over. “We can talk about it later.”

“Come over tonight? I want to sit down with you,” insists Steve.

“Can’t tonight,” says Bucky, voice short. “I’m working. I can meet you tomorrow, sometime.”

“Okay,” says Steve. “And Bucky…”

“Yeah?” says Bucky. The sun is shining on Bucky, it’s giving him a headache.

“I love you. Nothing’s going to change that.”

Steve hangs up before Bucky has time to react.

 

* * *

 

Bucky knocks on Rumlow’s door. He’s wearing what he wore this morning, what he slept in the previous night — he hasn’t bothered to take a shower; hasn’t tried to prepare for this in any way.

The door swings open and Bucky slinks past Rumlow, running a hand through his hair to smooth it. Rumlow’s apartment is tiny, about as small as Bucky’s, and much more cluttered. There’s a large bed that takes up more than half of the place; looking at it directly is hard for Bucky, so he tries to look anywhere else. Bucky puts the bottle of whiskey down on the dresser, which is the only flat surface he can find. It’s cheap shit; bottom shelf crap he found at the lowest rent liquor store in his neighborhood, but he doesn’t really care, right now.

“You came prepared,” says Rumlow, arching an eyebrow.

“Yeah, well,” says Bucky, opening the bottle. He looks around for an empty glass, pours himself a healthy amount. “I _am_ an alcoholic,” he says, sarcastically.

“You should think about getting some help,” says Rumlow, sympathetically. “My cousin, he’s in AA. Been attending meetings for thirteen years. He says they’re really helpful.”

Bucky drowns the liquor, grimacing at the taste. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, pouring himself another glass.

“Don’t get too drunk,” Rumlow warns. “I want you conscious for this,” he says, and suddenly, Bucky sees the lube and condoms on the dresser, next to his whiskey glass. He feels sick, feels his world swim a little. He rests a hand on the dresser, trying to get his bearings.

Rumlow comes over and rubs Bucky’s back, sympathetically. He rubs Bucky’s shoulders, strokes his hair. He smells like pine needles and antifreeze — Bucky feels like gagging. Bucky takes a shot, then another. More than half the bottle is gone. “You’re so brave, you know that?” says Rumlow. “So pretty. I’m going to take care of you so well.” He ushers Bucky onto the bed, and Bucky sits, his head in his hands. “It’s gonna be okay, kid. Let Uncle Brock take care of you.”

Rumlow kisses Bucky, and Bucky, whiskey-numb, kisses back. Rumlow tastes like cigarettes and sour milk. Bucky opens his legs, lets Rumlow start stroking his dick.

Bucky takes his clothes off. He turns over. He spreads his legs. He feels a slick touch. He feels the press of a cock.

Bucky stares at the end table, stares at the red glowing letters as he is fucked, and the numbers implant themselves in his mind. 10:41. 10:41. 10:41.

Bucky wakes up on his couch, fully clothed. He has no idea how he got home. His ass hurts, his head hurts. His apartment is baking; it is hot enough that Bucky suspects it might be past mid-day, maybe one or two in the afternoon. His suspicions are confirmed when he glances at his phone. He sees that he has seven missed calls. His stomach lurches and he throws up onto the carpeted floor. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and goes back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Steve pushes open the door to the bar, and tries not to cough at the amount of smoke in the air. He frowns at the customers in the corner, puffing away at their cigarettes. _Bloomberg outlawed smoking in bars for a reason_ , he thinks to himself, annoyed. He doesn’t want to think about the second-hand smoke Bucky is taking in by working here.

Bucky isn’t behind the bar. An elderly South Asian man is behind the bar instead, and he barely looks up from his game of checkers when Steve approaches the bar. Steve clears his throat, expectantly.

“Can I help you?” asks the man. He has a thick accent. Pakistani, or North Indian?

“Yes, I’m looking for Bucky Barnes?” asks Steve, tentatively.

“Bucky, he’s not working tonight. Switched shifts with me at the last moment,” says the man, looking annoyed. “I was spending time with my wife, and he does this to me,” he complains.

“Ali, I’m sure he had a good reason,” says a man wearing a cowboy hat, who is sitting at the bar. He looks at Steve and smiles. “You’re that fella, the one who knew Bucky from way back,” he says, and Steve recognizes him — he was there that first day, all those weeks ago, when Steve was reunited with Bucky.

“Yeah, he’s… we’re friends,” says Steve, awkwardly. He doesn’t know how much to reveal to Bucky’s customers; he doesn’t know if Bucky is out at work.

“Yeah, he’s supposed to be working tonight,” says the man. “He told me specifically. S’the only reason I came in, to tell you the truth,” he says, leaning in, eyes sparkling.

“I heard that,” says Ali. “If you don’t like my service, you can get out,” but there’s no heat behind the words.

“If you see him, could you tell him Steve wants him to call?” says Steve.

“Will do,” the man says.

“Thank you… thanks…”

“Leroy,” the man helpfully supplies.

“Thank you, Leroy,” says Steve, gratefully. He smiles at Leroy, and leaves the bar.

Where the hell is Bucky?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a nonconsensual sex scene in this chapter.
> 
> And if you're broken, watch [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y8AWFf7EAc4)! (It won't help. It will just leave you more broken. Sorry.)


	8. It's a Cold and it's a Broken Hallelujah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Rumlow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey so remember how I said last chapter was bad? This chapter is probably worse. I'm so sorry. I honestly think from here on out, it gets better though. Remember: happy ending!

When Bucky finally wakes up, the sun is gone, and it’s dark in his apartment. He has a brief moment of panic before remembering that he isn’t working today; that it’s his day off.

He swings his legs over the side of the couch, sits there for a while with his head in his hands. There is no buzz in his head, no ache of a hangover — he effectively slept through it. His ass still hurts, and he knows it will be a day or two before the pain goes away.

He’s hungry. He knows there’s no food in his mini-fridge.

He smells. The acrid stench of vomit suffuses the apartment, but more than that, he knows he himself _smells_. Rumlow’s sweat is on him; it mingles with his. He can feel it on him, contaminating him.

He showers quickly and efficiently. He throws on a new t-shirt and jeans, pulls his hair up, leaves his apartment.

He’s halfway down the block when he realizes he has no money. Whatever he kept in his wallet has gone to Rumlow, whatever little he kept back to tide him over til he worked again went to the booze that helped him survive Rumlow. His stomach growls.

He makes a decision, and goes to his bar.

 

* * *

 

“Look who it is,” says Ali, who is drying glassware. “The famous Bucky Barnes.”

Bucky grunts a hello and sits at the bar. Ali places an empty glass and a bottle of Jim Beam in front of him — Bucky pours, Bucky drinks.

“What did you have to do that was so goddamn important, you make me come in on date night?” asks Ali.

“Can’t tell you,” says Bucky, polishing off his glass, pouring himself another. “Top secret.”

“You’re lucky I don’t complain to Ivan,” says Ali.

“Front me a twenty,” says Bucky.

“What?” Ali sputters.

“I’m good for it,” Bucky grunts. “You know I am.”

Ali goes to the register, muttering all the way, but pulls out the money and gives it to Bucky.

Bucky goes to Leroy, who is sitting in the corner, drinking a pint. He pulls up a chair, sits at Leroy’s table.

“Your friend came in, looking for you,” says Leroy.

“Which friend?” asks Bucky, a foreboding feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Tall, blonde. Says for you to call him.”

Bucky groans, lowers his head to his hands. Steve came here. Steve came here looking for Bucky. And Bucky was at Rumlow’s. Bucky had lied and told Steve he’d be working, but he was at Rumlow’s, getting fucked by another man.

He pulls out his phone. It’s at 6% charge, and there are _twenty_ missed calls; _thirteen_ unread messages.

“Fuck me,” mutters Bucky. He stands up, walks around the bar, pulls out the spare charger he keeps in one of the drawers. He plugs his phone in, takes a big breath, and opens his messages.

> _Hi Bucky, you should call me. I need to explain some things._
> 
> _Bucky, please call me._
> 
> _Bucky, I went to your bar, and Leroy said you weren’t working tonight. Where are you? Please call._
> 
> _This isn’t like you, Bucky. I’m getting worried._

A few from Natasha.

> _Bucky, Steve called. He’s worried about you. You should call._
> 
> _Bucky where are you. This is important. This isn’t good, you can’t just disappear like this._

Clint even got in on the action.

> _If you’re on a bender, the least you could do is let us know you’re okay._

Steve again, from this morning.

> _We need to talk. ASAP. Call. Me._
> 
> _I love you._

Bucky calls Natasha.

“Where the _fuck_ have you been, радость,” says Natasha, her voice cold. “It’s been two days and no one’s heard from you. Clint went to your bar today; you weren’t there. No one knew where you were.”

“I’m sorry,” says Bucky. “I had to deal with a few things.”

“Like what?” asks Natasha, voice softening a little.

“I can’t tell you. I’m so sorry, Nat,” says Bucky, head in his hand. He wills himself not to break in the bar. His customers don’t need to see him crying.

“Are you okay? Do you need help? Do you need to come over?” she asks. She sounds worried.

“No. I’m fine. I just… needed to clear my head,” says Bucky.

“You needed to clear your head,” she says. She is angry, again. “Well, while you were off clearing your head, we didn’t know if you were dead or alive, you understand that?”

“I need you not to be mad at me,” says Bucky, desperately. “I can’t explain why, but I need you to just…”

“I’m not mad at you,” says Natasha, sighing. “I’m terrified. I’m terrified! One moment you seem to be doing okay, the next, you’re nowhere to be found. Your new boyfriend, the one you’re so in love with, you can’t even contact him to let him know you’re okay.”

“Natasha,” says Bucky, firmly. “Stop.”

“I’m done, I’m done,” she says. “I’m sorry,” she says, after a moment.

“Thank you,” says Bucky.

There’s a moment where no one says anything.

“Tell me, радость,” says Natasha. “How do you want me to help you get through this? Whatever this is?”

Bucky is silent. _Forgive me_ , is what immediately comes to mind, but he can’t say that. It makes no sense.

“Just let me be for a few days,” says Bucky, finally.

“Fine,” says Natasha. “What are you going to do about Steve?” she asks.

“Let me handle him,” says Bucky. “Thank you, Nat.”

They hang up. Bucky goes back to Leroy’s table.

“Buddy, if I give you money for it, will you run to the bodega and get me a sub? Roast beef, all dressed.”

Leroy nods, and Bucky hands him a twenty, tells him to keep a little for himself. He takes another sip of his drink, and another — waits for the liquor to hit a little, before he takes his phone out. He reads Steve’s texts again.

Before he can convince himself it’s a bad idea, he dials Steve’s number.

Steve picks up halfway through the second ring.

“Bucky,” he says, sounding worried.

“Hi, Steve,” says Bucky.

“Sam is so sorry,” says Steve, quickly. “He apologizes completely. He shouldn’t have pressed like that. It was inappropriate.”

“It was,” says Bucky, surprising himself.

A silence on the other end.

“He hasn’t fucked things up completely, has he?” asks Steve, sounding miserable.

“No,” says Bucky. “I’m sorry for disappearing like that. It was about other things. Not you. Not Sam.”

“You should have told me,” says Steve. “I’ve been in hell, Bucky. Where were you? I went to the bar, you weren’t there.”

“I’m sorry,” says Bucky. His insides are twisting with guilt. He can barely stand this.

“Are you okay? Do you need to come over?” asks Steve.

“No,” says Bucky, shortly. “I’m fine. I just need some space, okay?”

“Okay,” says Steve, taken aback. “If you need _anything_ , please call me?”

“Okay,” says Bucky, roughly. He hangs up before Steve can say anything else.

Leroy comes back in, holding a paper bag. Bucky takes it gratefully, bites into the sub. He eats so quickly he barely tastes his food.

“So why’d you skip your shift yesterday?” asks Leroy.

“Wasn’t feeling great,” Bucky lies.

“You look like hell,” observes Leroy.

“You don’t look like the picture of health either, so shut it, Leroy,” Bucky says, in a clipped voice.

“No offense intended,” says Leroy, holding his hands up in a placating gesture.

Bucky tips his head back, lets the remaining bourbon fall down his throat. He goes to the bar to get more.

 

* * *

 

 _Bartending while drunk is hard,_ Bucky thinks to himself, as he pops open another beer for the Professor.

“Wrong beer,” the Professor says, sourly.

“Deal with it,” Bucky says, trying not to slur his words.

“Why should I? I paid for a Pilsner Urquell, you’ve given me an IPA,” he complains.

Bucky leans on the bar, looks the Professor dead in the eye. “Deal. With. It,” Bucky growls, and the Professor nods, quickly.

“I guess I can deal with it for tonight,” the Professor says, like he was never bothered by the wrong beer in the first place.

He’s been fucked up for almost forty-eight hours, ever since he got off the phone with Steve. He knows what he’s doing is stupid, he knows that if someone complains to Ivan, he might lose his job — he can’t find it within himself to care, at the moment. He hasn’t been back to his apartment since talking to Steve on the phone — he passed out in the back room between shifts. He’s survived by paying patrons to go get him food, and as for liquor — well, he works in a bar.

Bucky runs a hand through his hair — it’s getting filthy with his sweat. He lost his only hair-tie hours ago and has nothing to hold it back. He knows he looks like warmed-over shit right now. He’s choosing to focus his energies on not falling over, at the moment — he can’t be too bothered by how he looks.

Someone orders a gin and tonic and Bucky makes it, someone orders Hennessey, and Bucky pours it.

Someone calls his name and Bucky turns around, ready to make his next drink, and it’s Steve — oh fuck, it’s Steve.

“Bucky?” says Steve. He looks shocked.

“What’re you doing here?” asks Bucky.

“I got worried. I wanted to see you.”

Bucky leaves the bar, ushers Steve outside. “Thought I told you I wanted space,” says Bucky, when they’re on the sidewalk.

“You left me in the dark. No explanation, nothing,” says Steve, eyes round. He looks scared.

“I told you enough,” Bucky says, gruffly. “I told you I wanted space.”

“And that’s not good enough,” says Steve, firmly. “I need to know why. I… I need to know where you were on Sunday night.”

“You don’t trust me?” says Bucky, almost mockingly.

“I trust you, I just…”

“You don’t trust me. Good,” says Bucky. “You shouldn’t.”

“Don’t say that,” says Steve, looking horrified.

“I’m not a good dude. I’m not a good fucking person, Steve,” says Bucky.

“You’re an amazing person,” says Steve, stoutly. “I love you. Nothing’s going to change that.”

“Bull _shit_ , you love me,” Bucky spits. Steve recoils, like Bucky has assaulted him. “You don’t fucking know me, you little twerp,” says Bucky. “You met me ten years ago when I was a different person; you formed an obsession. You’ve never met me in your life.”

Steve’s eyes fill with tears.

Bucky continues, relentless. “ _This_ is me. This is the real me. This bar, this fucking place.”

“Oh my god,” Steve whispers.

“I fucked someone else, on Sunday night,” says Bucky, because he cannot stop.

Steve gasps, and the sound goes right to Bucky’s core.

For a moment, neither says anything. Steve is staring at Bucky, wide-eyed, wetness on his face.

“I fucked someone else,” says Bucky, voice cracking. He looks away, looks at the sky. He blinks rapidly, trying to dispel the tears that have welled up in his eyes.

“Why?” Steve whispers.

“I don’t know,” says Bucky, miserably.

“But I love you,” says Steve. He says it like it’s all he knows how to say.

“You need to find someone better,” says Bucky. “Someone who won’t hurt you.” Bucky tries to go inside, but Steve reaches out, grabs his sleeve.

“No, Bucky,” says Steve, desperately. “Please don’t go,” he begs.

“It’s over, Steve,” says Bucky, not looking at him. He goes back into the bar, numb.

 

* * *

 

Someone tries to order a drink. Bucky stares at them, stares past them.

“Yo, I said I wanted a PBR?” the guy says. He’s a beefy looking contractor type, and he looks irritated.

“What?” says Bucky, fuzzy.

“Are you deaf? I said I wanted a PBR,” the guy says, slowly, enunciating every word.

“You don’t need to fucking yell,” snaps Bucky.

“I didn’t yell?” the guy says, confused. “I just want to order.”

“Get out,” says Bucky, pointing at the door.

“What?” the guy says, but Leroy’s already ushering the guy out. Bucky collapses on the barstool he keeps behind the bar, head in his hands.

“Everything okay, honey?” Janine asks.

“Yeah,” grunts Bucky, but he finds he can’t stand up.

“Okay, maybe it’s time for you to go home,” says Leroy. “You’ve been here too long.”

“Have to finish my shift,” says Bucky.

“It’s midnight, your shift is over,” says Leroy. “I’ll kick everyone out, you go on home.”

And so Leroy kicks everyone out. There’s a lot of grumbling, a lot of complaining, but the bar empties out quickly enough.

“You gonna be okay, kid?” asks Leroy. Bucky looks at him, bleary-eyed. It’s not often that Leroy is more sober than Bucky; tonight seems to be one of those nights.

“Probably not,” says Bucky. He smiles; it’s fleeting.

“That guy, the blonde dude,” says Leroy. “Want me to kick his ass?”

“Nah,” says Bucky. “It’s my ass that needs kicking.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Bucky doesn’t bother with his customary wipe down; he just turns the lights off and locks up. He starts walking; by the time he’s halfway home, he realizes he’d rather sleep in an alley than be in his apartment.

He looks at his phone. It’s almost 1 AM, but he still takes it out and dials Natasha’s number.

“Bucky?” she answers, sounding awake, despite the late hour.

“I need you to come and get me,” says Bucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry. Remember: Bucky is hurting, and hurting bad. That of course does not excuse how he treats Steve in this chapter. 
> 
> Rough times are ahead for the boys, but I'm going to fix it, I promise.


	9. Clint Fucking Barton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relatively longer wait for this one, folks! Sorry, I really worked hard on the scene with Clint. Had to get it just right. 
> 
> Content warnings (that are quite spoiler-y) in the end-notes.

Clint pulls up to the curb and Natasha gets out of the car; she comes over to where Bucky is sitting, head in his hands.

“Bucky,” she says, her arms wrapped around herself.

Bucky doesn’t look up.

“Get in the car, радость,” she says, and when he doesn’t move, Natasha sighs and goes to him. She sits down and puts her arms around him, squeezes his shoulders.

Bucky can’t look at her, can’t move. “I fucked up, Nat,” he whispers.

“It’s okay, радость. Whatever it is, we’ll fix it. Come with us?”

After a moment, Bucky nods. He lets himself be pulled up, escorted into the car. Natasha gets into the back seat with Bucky, hand firmly grasping his, head on his shoulder. The door closes behind her and Clint drives off.

 

* * *

 

Bucky knows he smells like a distillery, and finds that he still has the capacity to be ashamed of himself for it. He’s not sure whether or not he should be grateful for that.

Clint puts a mug in front of him.

“What is this?” asks Bucky, suspiciously.

“Pomegranate-cranberry tea,” says Clint. He shrugs. “It was all the herbal tea we had.”

“Thanks,” says Bucky, after a moment. He stares at the pigment unfurling in the hot water; he is hypnotized by it.

“Take it we can’t call Steve,” says Natasha, with a tired sigh. She’s standing somewhere behind him. Bucky knows that her arms are crossed — he can picture the contemplative frown on her face, though he cannot see it.

Bucky shakes his head, minutely. “It’s over,” he says, voice a croak. “I fucked it up.”

“I’m sure it’s not —” starts Clint, but Bucky violently shakes his head; interrupts him.

“I fucked it up. He’ll never talk to me again.”

“What happened, радость?” asks Natasha.

Bucky opens his mouth to explain what he did — how he wasted his money, how he lied to Steve about where he was, how he bent over for another man — and finds he can’t say a word.

“It’s okay,” says Natasha, quickly. “You can tell me later.”

“I don’t want this,” says Bucky. It takes him a moment to realize that he’s talking about the tea.

“Drink it anyway,” says Natasha, firmly.

Bucky complies, and he burns his mouth a little doing so.

“I’ve set the guest bedroom up for you,” says Natasha. “Come,” she orders, and ushers Bucky into the room. There are fresh sheets on the bed, a folded set of pajamas (probably a spare set of Clint’s), a towel and a washcloth and a fresh toothbrush, even.

“Thanks,” says Bucky. He knows Natasha didn’t have time to gather all this crap in the time between when he called her and when they came to get him — she must have set this up beforehand, when he was still on his bender. She even might have been preparing for Bucky’s arrival before Bucky had talked to her on the phone; before he had let her know he was safe. The image of Natasha burying herself in housework to cope with her worry about him fills him with shame.

Once alone, Bucky carefully puts the clothes and the toiletries on the floor. He strips, and lies down on the bed, naked.

It is a while before he falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

Bucky wakes to the gentle rumble of Brooklyn at mid-day. He blinks his eyes; yawns. Somewhere, a truck is backing up. The sound is soothing, and for a moment, Bucky is tempted to drift off back to sleep — the ache behind his eyes keeps him awake. He lifts his head, searches the room; he sees that Natasha thought to put a glass of water on his nightstand last night as well. Bucky sits up, drinks the water in one go.

The water doesn’t do much for his headache, but at least his mouth isn’t dry anymore. He gets up, puts on the PJs that were set out for him last night, and goes to the kitchen to get some more water.

“You’re up,” says Clint, who is perched on the couch, watching TV. He’s drinking coffee.

“Yeah,” says Bucky. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”  

“Nah, don’t have to go in until six. I’m on Bucky-duty until then.” Clint gets up and goes to the kitchen.

“Oh god,” Bucky groans.

“You brought it on yourself, so no complaining,” says Clint, sternly. He hands Bucky a mug full of coffee, and a glass of water. “You’re not allowed to leave. Like, at all.”

“Not even to go to work?” asks Bucky, weakly.

“You can go to work,” says Clint. “ _If_ you come back right after. You’re grounded, kid,” he says.

“Fuck.”

“After my classes are over, I’m stopping by your place and getting your clothes. You’re here for a week, minimum.”

“Won’t that cramp your style, a little?” asks Bucky, desperate. “I don’t want to be a third wheel, man.”

“We don’t give a fuck about that, Bucky,” says Clint, calmly. “It’s more important that you’re okay. And we don’t trust your ability to be okay on your own.”

Bucky looks at the floor, his eyes fill with humiliating tears.

“You’re at rock bottom,” says Clint. “I fucking get it. I was there too. I know what it’s like.” He says it kindly, applying his words like a balm.  

“When were you ever at rock bottom; come on, dude,” says Bucky, bitterly. “You’re Clint fucking Barton. You went to the fucking Olympics.”

“Yeah, well, I went through my own period of suicidal depression, after I won all those gold medals,” says Clint.

Bucky blinks. He is taken aback. This is new information.

“And I tried it, too,” says Clint. “Swallowed a bottle of pills with a bottle of vodka. It’s a fucking miracle I’m still here, bro.”

“I had no idea,” says Bucky.

“I don’t like to talk about it,” says Clint. He reaches into the cabinet above the stove, takes out a bottle of ibuprofen, hands it over. Bucky is immensely grateful he didn’t have to ask for it. “It was a dark time in my life,” Clint continues. “But I got through it. And you’ll get through this as well.”

They watch Casablanca, of all things. Bucky hasn’t seen this movie since he was a kid. He has a vague memory of his mother quietly calling him to the couch, the dramatic violin score an incongruous accompaniment to the fluffy snowflakes falling outside the living room window. He remembers being bored at the time, not understanding the significance of Ingrid Bergman leaving Humphrey Bogart on the tarmac, of her walking away to another man, of Bogart striking out on his own.

Bogart fades into the distance, and Bucky is sober enough to understand that what Bucky’s done — it’s the polar opposite of heroism. It hurts to realize that he’s broken Steve. He hasn’t done it for the greater good — he’s done it because that’s just how Bucky works. That’s what he does; he breaks things. The credits roll and Bucky feels hollow inside; feels like last night was meant to happen all along, and hates himself — not for leaving Steve, but for getting together with him in the first place, when he knew all along this was going to be the end result.

“You okay, bro?” asks Clint.

“Yeah,” says Bucky, and blinks away the tears. He stares at a spot on the floor while Clint goes to the kitchen, feeling hot and cold all over. He aches for a drink, but Bucky knows enough not to ask Clint for a beer. Instead he sips at the coffee Clint hands him, hating it for its promise of enhanced sobriety, hating how alert the caffeine makes him feel. The coffee isn’t enough to cut through the haze of the post-hangover, but it’s enough to make him feel the sharp edges of what happened last night.

“Wanna watch something else?” asks Clint.

“Sure,” says Bucky. Clint puts on Rear Window, but Bucky hardly pays attention. Instead he wonders what Steve is doing; if he’s talking to his friends right now, or if he’s white-knuckling his way through the pain. He wonders if Steve went home and hit the Jameson — which was the only real liquor in Steve’s apartment, courtesy of the last time Riley was home — if he got sloppy drunk to deal. _Probably not_ , thinks Bucky. _Steve isn’t me._

Bucky wonders what Sam thinks of Bucky; feels a sort of grim satisfaction when he imagines how deep Sam’s anger at Bucky will run. Sam’s hatred, of course, is probably tempered by pity, which is what good people feel for the irredeemable — still; if anyone knows the truth about Bucky Barnes, it is probably Sam Wilson.

Because Bucky fucking hates himself, he imagines Sam hugging Steve, holding him firm as Steve cries, Sam’s genial face turning to stone. Bucky imagines Sam embracing Steve; imagines him smoothing away Steve’s golden hair, palming his face. Bucky imagines Sam kissing Steve’s cheeks, his lips. Steve kissing back. One thing leading to another. Bucky… Bucky forgotten. Sam replacing each one of Bucky’s embraces with his own. Sam cleansing Steve of Bucky’s malignant presence.

Bucky is surprised to find that his fist is clenched, that his fingernails are digging into his palm. The thought of Steve rebounding with his de-facto brother is ludicrous, Bucky isn’t so gone that he doesn’t see the absurdity of the fantasy — but the fantasy remains. The image is at once painful and soothing — it is the negation of Bucky’s existence, the elimination of everything he is to Steve — it is the promise that Steve might, in the end, be okay.

Steve is surrounded by people who love him. Steve will forget Bucky. Bucky will fade into dust.

“My dad beat the shit out of me, when I was a kid,” says Clint.

Bucky is jolted from his thoughts. “What?” asks Bucky, stupidly. He’s not quite sure he heard Clint correctly.

“I don’t know, man,” says Clint, stretching out. He switched to beer a while back — he takes a deep swig. Bucky tries hard to not let his eyes follow the bottle. Clint continues: “I’m trying to distract you. Get you out of your head. My dad hit me so hard that I lost hearing for a few years.”

“You picked a hell of a way to change the subject,” says Bucky, amazed.

“Yeah, well,” says Clint. “Hey, you want one of these?” he asks Bucky, gesturing to the beer.

Bucky nods minutely, not wanting to question his good fortune. Clint gets up and goes to the kitchen, the movie still running. Bucky follows him. Clint gets a beer from the fridge, untwists the cap, hands it over.

The first sip goes down like a sacrament. Bucky wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, mutters his thanks. They stand in the kitchen for a while, saying nothing.

“You wanna talk about it?” says Bucky, after a moment.

“My dad?” says Clint. “No, not really,” he says, taking a sip. Another pause. “He beat me hard enough that they tried to put us into foster care, Barney and me.”

“Wow,” says Bucky, not sure how to react. He’s never experienced anything like that. He’s lucky. His dad had been a little distant, a little uncaring, but not abusive. “What do you mean, they _tried_ to put you in foster care? They didn’t succeed?” asks Bucky.

“Nah,” says Clint, grinning. “We ran away and joined the circus,”

“Fuck off,” says Bucky, laughing. The laughter bubbles out of him like oil from a well and for a second, Bucky is so, so grateful to Clint.

“It’s true,” says Clint, laughing. “Where do you think I learned how to shoot so well?”

“How the fuck have I never known this about you?” says Bucky. “You were a carnie? A trick-shot carnie?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” says Clint. “They used to call me Hawkeye,” he says, grinning. He finishes his beer, goes for another.

“Does Natasha know?” asks Bucky.

“Nat knows everything,” says Clint. “When we got together we talked for two days straight; told each other everything there was to tell.”

“Wow,” says Bucky. Natasha and Clint are two of the most reserved people he knows — it took him a year of knowing Natasha to find out whether or not she had any family she keeps in touch with (she doesn’t). The realization that Nat and Clint shared their secrets right away makes him feel a little jealous.

“I got recruited by the Olympic archery team when I turned 17, and then I was winning gold medals and tournaments and travelling the world — it was crazy. It was too much. And then I just crashed. I was in the psych ward for a year. I rebuilt my life, brick by brick. I learned to deal with the trauma.”

Bucky looks away, drinks his beer. “You think I’ve got trauma?” he asks. He tries to adopt a sardonic tone; it comes out as timid, instead.

“You’ve got something you’re not telling us,” says Clint. “No idea what it is, yet.” He looks at Bucky keenly, and Bucky feels like shying away from him. “You don’t have to tell us right away, or at all, even. But you will have to tell someone eventually. You’re going to have to deal with this.”

“What if I can’t?” whispers Bucky.

“I felt that way too,” says Clint. “You chip at it day by day, until you can. It’s that simple.”

Clint claps Bucky on the arm as if to say _good talk_ , and goes back into the living room to watch the end of the movie, leaving Bucky to his own devastation.

 

* * *

 

Clint leaves to teach his archery workshop, and Natasha comes home from work — the changing of the guard.

“Did you have a good time with Clint?” asks Natasha, sweetly.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “You don’t have to treat me like I’m four, you know.”

“I know, радость. It’s just so good to have you home,” she says, tucking an errant strand behind his ear. She smiles at him fondly.

Bucky bats away her hand with an annoyed expression on his face; secretly, he feels warm at her mothering. “I’m not a child,” he says.

“You might as well be, to me,” says Natasha. “I’m nearly seven years older than you, and Clint’s nearing forty. You’re a fetus.”

“Well, I don’t feel like one,” says Bucky.

Nat puts Bucky to work prepping vegetables. They make a light summer gazpacho with pan-fried steak. It’s the healthiest, most delicious meal Bucky has had since — since the last time he cooked with Steve.

“When do you work next?” says Natasha, cutting her steak.

“This weekend,” says Bucky. “Tomorrow and Saturday, til 4 AM.”

“Do me a favor, радость. Try not to get as drunk as you did last night,” says Natasha.

Bucky looks down at his soup.

“Not saying you can’t drink,” Natasha says, quickly. “But don’t do anything that puts you in danger, okay? Don’t make it so you can’t get home in one piece.”

Bucky hates himself for forcing his friends to make room for his addiction. He grunts his assent, hoping they can change the subject.

“Hello, hello,” says Clint, who has come home. He drops a few tote bags on the couch in the living room. He points to them. “I got your shit, Bucky.”

“Thanks,” says Bucky, feeling awkward. He hopes Clint won’t bring up anything about the state his apartment was in. It was hard enough, telling Clint where he lived; handing over his keys. To have to endure a lecture about cleanliness… he wouldn’t be able to do it, right now.

“Now you have no reason to go back to that place,” says Clint.

“I can’t just… live here,” says Bucky.

“You can for a little while,” says Natasha, a little desperately. When Bucky looks at her, she just says: “please, радость. Do this for me.”

“I don’t even have a key,” says Bucky, in a last ditch effort.

Natasha nods at Clint; Clint fumbles in his pockets. “Here, man. I made you a copy.” He comes over, gives Bucky two golden keys. “This one’s for the front door, this is for the apartment,” says Clint.

Bucky doesn’t know what to say — doesn’t know that he could speak right now, even if he wanted to.

“You’ll always have a home with us, радость,” says Natasha, closing her hands around Bucky’s fist.

Bucky just nods, his heart in his throat.

 

* * *

 

Bucky keeps his promise to Natasha — to an extent. He wonders, halfway through his second beer, if he should slow down. It is only an hour into his shift, but it’s just going down so easy, like it was meant to. It makes him feel bubbly and warm inside. He switches to bourbon after a few hours, and feels loose and happy.

Easy enough to say yes when Cynthia offers to buy him a shot. Bucky doesn’t miss the calculating look in her eyes when he tips his head back; how she follows the trail of a whiskey droplet past his lips.

More customers, more work, more tips. Bucky busies himself in work — he’s not drunk enough that he can’t function, but not sober enough that he doesn’t have to think hard about what he’s doing. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Cynthia dancing on the floor. She’s loading the juke up with base-heavy songs; she grinds to the beat, inexpertly shaking her ass to the music, her low-rise jeans almost slipping off her thin hips. She flips her stick-straight hair and smiles at the boys (probably underage, but Bucky doesn’t give a fuck) who have gathered to watch her.

Two big, beefy dudes hit Bucky up for Jameson shots, and Bucky pours ‘em — he catches Cynthia looking at him with heavy eyelids. Bucky winks at her, and relishes the way she blushes. He throws his tips in the tip bucket, takes another order.

Towards the end of the night, Cynthia comes over to the bar. It’s mostly emptied out, just a few die-hards playing pool in the corner. “Vodka cran, Bucky,” says Cynthia, in her cigarette-roughened voice.

“Coming right up,” says Bucky. He fixes her drink, takes her money.

“Haven’t been here in a while,” says Cynthia.

“No you have not,” says Bucky. “You cheating on me, Cyn?”

Cynthia laughs. “I was outta town. Jersey Shore. Anything change since I last saw you?’

“Nah,” he says, smiling at her, easily. “Same old Bucky. Down for a good time, as always,” he says.

“Is that so,” says Cynthia, arching a too-skinny eyebrow. She looks around, sees that nobody is watching. She looks back at Bucky and winks at him. She goes to the ladies room.

Bucky watches the door close behind her, and makes his decision. He puts his bar rag down, and follows her into the bathroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: There's some discussion of child abuse, and Bucky hooks up with a chick from the bar in this chapter. Nothing explicit. 
> 
> Come hang out on [tumblr](http://bipolarbuckyy.tumblr.com)!


	10. Riley's Back!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve mourns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve's POV this time, hope everyone enjoys it!

Steve wakes up and immediately wishes he was still asleep. There’s a dull pounding behind his eyes; the beginning of a sinus headache. He rolls over, hits his alarm.

It’s going to be a shitty day.

He splashes water on his face, puts his contacts in, looks at himself in the mirror. His eyes are red from crying; he looks like he could use more sleep.

Sam is up early; he’s drinking a protein shake and has coffee brewing.

“Made extra,” says Sam, pointing at the coffeemaker. Steve silently grabs a mug, pours himself a cup of coffee. He puts liberal amounts of cream and sugar in, ignoring Sam’s stare. “Okay, what’s wrong?” asks Sam.

“What do you mean, what’s wrong?” says Steve, tiredly.

“You never put that much extra shit in your coffee,” says Sam.

“Wasn’t aware you kept track of my coffee-intake rituals,” Steve fires back, feeling petty.

“Seriously,” says Sam, crossing his arms, a stony look on his face. “What’s. Wrong?”

Steve tries to speak; nothing comes out.

“Steve,” says Sam, warningly.

“Went to Bucky’s bar last night,” says Steve, finally.

“Okay,” says Sam. He sits at the kitchen island, looking at Steve intensely.

“Bucky was wasted,” says Steve. “He said some things. And… and I think it’s over.”

“Oh no,” says Sam. He looks stricken. “Because of what I said?”

“No,” says Steve.

“Maybe there’s time to fix it,” says Sam, desperately.

“No,” says Steve, and it’s like dagger in his heart, saying the word. “No. It’s… done. He slept with someone else,” he says. He stares at the floor.

“He what?” says Sam, incredulously.

“Yeah,” says Steve, miserably.

“That _piece of shit,_ ” says Sam, eyes wide. He comes over to where Steve is standing, pulls him into a hug. Steve tucks his face into Sam’s neck, screws his eyes shut. He clutches at Sam’s shirt, balling his fists in the fabric.

“Want me to kill him?” says Sam. His voice rumbles through Steve; warm and reassuring.

Steve laughs, short and dry. “No. I don’t want anything to happen to him,” Steve mumbles into Sam’s neck.

“Why?” asks Sam.

“I don’t know!” says Steve. “I have no fucking clue. I love him, that’s why. I fucking love him.” His voice breaks, and Steve stops talking.

“You need to find someone who deserves your love, man,” says Sam, stroking Steve’s back, and it’s all Steve can do, to not burst into tears.

Reluctantly, Steve pulls away, wiping at his eyes. “Have to pull it together,” he says. “Have class in two hours.”

“Can’t you call in sick?” says Sam.

“There’s a paper due soon; the kids are going to want my advice. Besides, it’ll help me get my mind off of things.”

“Fine. When do you come back?” asks Sam.

“Six. Maybe six-thirty”

“Fine. I get back at five,” says Sam. “You’re not going anywhere, I’m pampering you, okay?”

Steve smiles, almost shyly. He feels a fuzzy warmth come over him — it’s the first truly positive emotion he’s felt in twelve hours. “You’re a good goddamn friend, Sam Wilson,” he says.

“I know,” says Sam.

 

* * *

 

Steve walks down the sidewalk, Modest Mouse blasting in his earbuds. His hands are shoved in his pockets, his shoulders are hunched forward. He is late for class.

Steve wonders, not for the first time, if there’s something fucked up about how _big_ his feelings for Bucky are. They’re the largest thing he’s ever encountered in his life — the most comprehensive set of emotions he’s ever known.

The thing is, none of Steve’s other experiences of love looked like what he had felt for Bucky. His relationship with Peggy Carter, for instance — it had been a slight, delicate thing; almost ethereal in quality. They had met at a protest, and they had slid into something soft and sure and durable. He remembers being amazed that two people who lived their lives on such a grand scale could maintain a relationship so grounded in smallness; in heads pillowed on laps; books given back and forth; soft smiles traded at the end and start of each day.

It had ended because Peggy had been coaxed back to London by professional obligation — it had ended because Steve couldn’t find it within himself to abandon America. Steve had a commitment to improving the society that had produced him, the community that had given him so much — he saw its weaknesses and had dreamed, his entire life, of being strong enough to help heal it.

In the end, his love for his country had won out over his love for Peggy. It had taken him years to admit this — that something could be greater than his love for his partner.

He pushes through the double doors of the building; he climbs the stairs, two at a time. Kamala waves at him as he takes his seat at the front of the lecture hall, and he smiles at her. He tries to listen to Professor Fury lecture about social stratification — he finds he can’t really pay attention.

The thought hits him; if Bucky had been the one to ask him to give up everything and move to some unknown place, would he have done it? It hurts, when he realizes he doesn’t have to think about the answer. If Bucky had asked him to move to Madagascar, if Bucky had been the one to ask him to start over from scratch, Steve would have gone without a thought. He clenches his jaw, wills himself not to start crying in the middle of lecture.

What do you do when the person you’re in love with doesn’t love you back? Because Bucky didn’t, he couldn’t. People who love each other don’t say the things that Bucky said, last night. They don’t insult the people they love. They don’t fuck other people, and then shove it in their partner’s face, with the express purpose of wounding them. Steve grits his teeth. What Bucky had done was humiliating. It was wrong. It was pretty fucking unforgivable.

And yet… Steve wasn’t angry. He’s heartbroken, he’s sad; he’s not angry. That’s what Sam doesn’t understand. Steve doesn’t wish any harm on Bucky. God, the thought of wanting something _bad_ to happen to Bucky is so alien to him. Loving Bucky is a reflex; Steve does it without thinking. It might take a while for instinct to catch up to reality, Steve thinks, sighing.

The lecture ends; a few kids mob Steve, wanting him to answer questions about their paper. He answers questions as best he can while heading to the graduate students’ office for his office hours. He takes each student in turn, and lets work distract him from thoughts of Bucky Barnes, for a little while.

 

* * *

 

Steve collapses on the couch, belly down, face shoved in the pillows.

“Hey there, Stevie,” says Sam. He’s stirring something at the stove; it smells delicious.

“Mrrrph,” says Steve.

“Come on, you don’t even want to ask what I’m making?”

“What are you making,” says Steve, voice muffled by the pillows

“Gumbo. Riley’s recipe,” says Sam. “His mom’s from Louisiana, did you know that?”

“I did not,” says Steve, sitting up, rubbing his eyes. “Smells good,” he says, after a moment.

“How was work?” asks Sam.

“Awful,” says Steve. “People wouldn’t leave me alone.”

“You’re teaching,” says Sam, simply. “That tends to happen.”

“I like it when the students ignore my existence,” says Steve. “I could have used a day of silence.”

Sam makes a noncommittal sound. Steve sits in silence for a while, while Sam cooks.

“Can I help with anything?” asks Steve, coming around to the kitchen.

“Yeah, if you want to help, you can make rice,” says Sam. “I still need to get this okra going.”

“Oh, yum,” says Steve. He gets to work, pulling the rice cooker out, measuring out brown rice. He wonders if Sam will be mad at him if he talks about Bucky. He genuinely doesn’t know how much or how little to bring Bucky up. He’s never been dumped like this, before.

“You go to the gym today?” asks Sam.

Steve shakes his head. He had gone back to sleep after Sam had left for work — he had napped through his usual gym hour, and then it had been time to go to class.

“Not good, man,” says Sam, shaking his head. “You need to keep your routine up.”

“Come on, it’s been a day,” says Steve, protesting lightly. “I’m allowed…”

“You’re allowed to slack off?” says Sam, a grin on his face. “That doesn’t sound like the Steve Rogers I know.”

“I’m allowed to mourn,” says Steve, quietly. He looks away, somewhere other than Sam’s face.

“You are,” says Sam, gently. “I’m sorry, Steve. I didn’t mean to be flippant.”

“You’re not,” says Steve. He feels empty.

“How are you?” asks Sam. “Still dwelling?”

“Yeah,” says Steve. “I can’t get over _how_ he did it. What he said. That almost hurts more than what he did.”

“What did he say?” asks Sam.

 _You little twerp._ The words ring in Steve’s ears. “Nothing good,” says Steve, hoping Sam doesn’t press.

“I think I hate him,” says Sam, with a vehemence that surprises Steve.

“Don’t,” says Steve, tired.

“I can’t help it,” says Sam. “I knew he was trouble from the start. I knew he was trouble from the _very_ start.”

“Come on, Sam,” says Steve. “Nothing indicated this was coming.”

Sam laughs, bitterly. “I knew he had it in him,” he says. “I knew it from when we were kids. I just never… never trusted him.”

“Just because I loved him so much?” asks Steve.

“Not just that,” says Sam. “You didn’t seem to _matter_ to him, the way he mattered to you, back then. It drove me crazy.”

“I know it did,” says Steve. He has a wild impulse to reach out and hold Sam’s hand. He doesn’t do it.

“And now… he’s just so reserved,” Sam continues. “I can’t get a read on him. I thought it was the soldier thing, but honestly, there’s something else wrong with him. I can’t tell what it is, but Bucky Barnes is not okay.”

“That’s not a reason to hate him,” says Steve, gently.

“Sleeping around on you and dumping you in public is a damn good reason to hate him,” says Sam, firmly.

“I guess,” says Steve, smiling sadly. “But don’t hate him for… the other stuff. Bucky has reasons for being the way he is.”

“And what are those reasons?” counters Sam.

“I… I don’t know, exactly,” says Steve, blinking. “He never told me.”

“And you don’t think there’s something kind of fucked up about that?” asks Sam.

“Come on, dude,” says Steve, taken aback. “You’re basically a therapist, you should be more accepting of this shit.”

“Yeah, but after a certain point, you need to open up to the people who love you; to the people you love,” says Sam, shaking his head. “You have a responsibility to them. Even if you can’t deal in specifics, you need to at least let them know you need space, or you need time. You need to tell people what it is that you need.”

“He did,” says Steve, suddenly. He has to sit down, the force of the revelation hits him so hard.

Sam looks at Steve curiously. “He did what?”

“He did tell me what he needs,” says Steve. “He did ask for space. On the phone. And then when I went to the bar, he reminded me that he had asked me for space,”

“Oh Steve,” says Sam.

“He asked me for space, and I ignored him,” says Steve, eyes sparkling with tears.

“It’s okay,” says Sam, pulling Steve into a hug. “We all do that shit, sometimes. That might have been worth a disagreement, might have been worth a fight, even — not worth you getting dumped over. And certainly not worth cheating on you.”

“I know,” says Steve. And he does know, he really does. He knows he’s not at fault, here. But there’s a lingering sense of regret — like he didn’t do the best he could, in his relationship with Bucky. He got a second chance when he met Bucky in that bar, and he went ahead and mucked it all up.

“Come on,” says Sam. “Help me with this okra. Better that than you dwelling.” He points at some as of yet unchopped okra on the chopping board. Steve complies.

 

* * *

 

Life goes on.

Steve get up in the mornings, fields frantic emails from students, goes to classes, comes home, goes to bed.

On Monday, the students’ midterm papers are due and Steve is suddenly flooded with work — fifty-eight eight to ten page papers that he has to grade. He gets up early to grade, goes to bed late, works through meals. Though Bucky occupies less space than he would without the extra work, his absence still lingers in Steve’s mind. Bucky is felt most keenly at the corners of the day; when Steve’s walking to work, nothing but music to distract him, or when he lies awake, trying to fall asleep.

On Friday, Riley comes home.

Sam has taken the day off work, and spends the morning nervously baking.

“Sam, who’s going to eat all those cookies?” asks Steve, who has come out of his room to take a quick break from grading. There are at least forty cookies laid out on the cooling racks.

“Riley is,” says Sam, who is carefully layering strips of pastry dough on a pie. “White chocolate macadamia nut cookies — his favorite.”

“You’re going to send him back to his unit with a gut,” says Steve, laughing.

“That’s the plan,” says Sam, sternly. “Send him back all fat and happy. Mama always said the best way to keep a man was to thicken him up.”

Steve laughs, shaking his head. He goes to the fridge, pulls out the milk, pours himself a glass. He reaches for a cookie, and Sam slaps his hand away.

“Seriously?” asks Steve, incredulous.

“Riley gets the first one,” says Sam, firmly.

“Aw,” says Steve, but he isn’t that disappointed. Sam getting all domestic — it’s a sweet thing to witness.

Sam disappears at three and comes back around four with Riley in tow.

“Steve!” yells Riley, looking brown as a nut. His hair is cropped close, military style, and he looks more built than Steve’s seen him in a long time — a wall of muscle.

“Hey buddy,” says Steve, hugging Riley close. “Glad to have you home,” he says.

“Nice to be home,” says Riley, grinning. Sam looks at Riley fondly.

They settle down to the meal Sam spent all day making — Riley’s cajun favorites; jambalaya and cornbread and yes, okra.

“God, honey. You could out-cook my mother,” says Riley, groaning around his fork.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” says Sam, but his eyes are soft, when he looks at Riley.

After dinner and deserts, Riley and Sam disappear into Sam’s room. Sam had tried to work on the dishes, but Riley had distracted him — sliding up close behind him, wrapping his arms around Sam’s midsection, whispering naughty things into Sam’s ear.

Steve had offered to take over, which is how he ends up forearms deep in dishwater while hushed sounds spill out from behind Sam’s closed door. He scrubs away at the dishes, trying to ignore the wicked resentment that’s growing in his heart — hating himself for feeling jealous, when he should be feeling nothing but happiness for his friends.

 

* * *

 

Steve goes back to the gym on Saturday — his self-imposed exile from exercise has been making him grumpy. After he hits his first post-return endorphin high, he feels immensely grateful that he didn’t let his grief keep him from this for too long.

He even makes his typical Saturday post-workout smoothie date with Wanda.

“You seem in a better mood,” says Wanda, grinning at him.

Steve groans. Last time he saw Wanda, it was on campus a few days after the break-up — Steve had, in an extremely atypical fashion, not said hello. “I’m sorry,” says Steve, smiling ruefully. “I was going through a rough time.”

“I heard,” says Wanda, taking a sip of her smoothie.

“From who?” says Steve, confused.

“Sam,” says Wanda. “He texted me a while ago to tell me what happened. I’m sorry, Stevie.”

“Yeah,” says Steve, glumly. “It fucking sucks.”

“Breakups are the worst,” says Wanda. “I remember when I broke up with my high school girlfriend; I cried for two weeks straight.”

“You young’un,” says Steve, smiling at her. It’s easy to forget, sometimes, that Wanda is only nineteen — she’s so easy to talk to, so mature in most ways.

“I know, I know,” says Wanda, grinning at him. “I’m a baby. I’ve only had one real relationship, though. That’s the only way I can relate.”

“Bucky was _kind_ of a high school sweetheart,” says Steve, and feels silly saying the words; feels silly for implying that Steve and Bucky were an item, back then. “Well, Bucky didn’t know he was my sweetheart. I sort of followed him around like a freshman puppy who had seen a very handsome bone of a senior.”

“Oh _boy_ ,” says Wanda, leaning forward, leaning on her hands. Her expression is positively gleeful. “Tell me more,” she says.

So Steve tells, and tells, and tells. Tells Wanda about the GSA meetings where Bucky would talk about what it was like to be out at Northside; what it was like to be out in his neighborhood, to his family. How Steve would watch Bucky talk, mesmerized. How Bucky’s eyes would sparkle, how a little smile would play on his face as he talked; how he had the ability to make each person he was talking to feel like they mattered. Steve tells Wanda about how he developed a crush on Bucky before he knew he could develop crushes on boys. He tells about how he had never met anyone more charismatic than Bucky Barnes in his entire life, and how the Bucky of today still managed to have this _presence_ about him, though he was so, so much quieter; so much more still than he ever used to be.

“I guess he matured, or something,” says Steve. “Or Afghanistan did it to him. He’s a different person now, not the same boy I knew,” says Steve, and only as he’s saying the words out loud does it hit him. He sits back; lets the realization wash over him.

“What’s wrong?” asks Wanda, perturbed.

“You know when you get smacked in the face with something really, really big?” says Steve, slowly. “Like, when you’re hit with an absolutely mind-shattering revelation?”

“Sure,” says Wanda, still looking confused.

“I think Bucky was right,” says Steve. “He told me, the night we broke up, that I didn’t really know him; that I was obsessed with him for no reason; that my feelings for him weren’t real.”

“You don’t think you loved him?” says Wanda, eyes wide.

“No,” says Steve. “That’s the thing. I’m quite sure I love him,” he says. “Bucky’s wrong about that. But I don’t think…. I don’t think I know him, very well. I didn’t then, and I don’t now.”

“How can you love someone you don’t know?” asks Wanda.

Steve shakes his head. “Can’t explain it. But I do. If there’s one thing I’d bet my life on, it’s that I love Bucky Barnes.”

“Oh, Steve,” says Wanda. She reaches out, encompasses Steve’s hands in her small ones.

Steve smiles at Wanda, sadly. He is as secure in his knowledge about his love for Bucky as ever — but he is frustrated that… that he doesn’t know things about Bucky. That he never got to find out the stupid little things about your partner that every person in a relationship needs to know. He doesn’t know Bucky’s favorite food. He doesn’t know anything about his family. He doesn’t know what Bucky’s college experience was like, he doesn’t know a single thing about Bucky’s worklife or his social life, other than that he works at a seedy bar and he hangs out with Natasha and Clint. He doesn’t know anything about Bucky’s wartime experiences.

“He didn’t give me time to learn anything about him,” says Steve, eyes filling with unexpected tears.

“I know, honey,” says Wanda, sympathetically. She squeezes Steve’s hand, keeps holding on.

“He threw it back in my face; that I didn’t know anything about him, when he wouldn’t give me an opportunity to learn,” says Steve, and for the first time, for the _very_ first time, he feels a tendril of anger unfurl in the pit of his stomach.

“That’s not fair,” says Wanda. “I don’t know much about relationships but I know communication isn’t just… something you do for fun — it’s a requirement. He didn’t communicate anything to you, and then he expected too much from you.”

“Yeah,” says Steve. He withdraws his hand from Wanda’s so he can wipe at his eyes.

“Steve…” Wanda begins.

“Yeah?”

“Honestly, Steve. Sounds like you’re better off.”

“Don’t say that,” begs Steve. “I feel like my heart’s been ripped out.”

“It will heal,” says Wanda, firmly. “And you’ll move on to find someone better for you, I promise.”

“No,” says Steve, screwing his eyes shut. “Even if you’re right, I can’t hear that, right now,” he says, helplessly.

“Okay,” says Wanda.

They say their goodbyes, pledge to do this again next week.

Steve feels hollow for the rest of the day.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know, I mentally cast Michael Peña as Riley. 
> 
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> (with the buzzcut he'd have if he was just getting off a military base)
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> YOU GET THE IDEA!! :)
> 
> As always, come hang out with me on [tumblr](http://bipolarbuckyy.tumblr.com).


	11. Fast Times at Northside High

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Steve met Bucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally. FINALLY. What, it's been.... more than two months since my last update? Jesus, I'm sorry.
> 
> I was going through a lot (a lot of good thing) and got distracted. I didn't forget you guys, though. I worked a little on Scar Tissue every day. 
> 
> I hope you like this (flashback!) episode!
> 
> warnings at the end.

 

Sam Wilson bites into his PBJ and tries to not let the jelly spurt out onto his hand.  _ They always put too much jelly in these things _ , he thinks, irritated. He wishes he were in charge of his school’s cafeteria — he doesn’t know how much he’d be able to change, given the low quality of the starting ingredients, but he knows he’d be able to better regulate the amount of grape jelly they use in their damn PBJs.

Steve sits next to Sam, throws his giant backpack on the floor next to his seat. He actually got the tuna casserole, or whatever the heck it is that they’re serving as the main course. Sam wasn’t brave enough to try it.

“Hey, man,” says Steve.

“Hey yourself,” says Sam. He inspects Steve. Steve looks exhausted, his thin face worn and weary. There are bags under his eyes. “Did you not sleep last night?”

“Had to finish my English homework,” says Steve, yawning.

“You get it done?”

“Yup. Romeo and Juliet — read and analysed.”

“Honors nerd,” says Sam, derisively. 

“You’re in honors everything too,” Steve points out, but Sam ignores him. “You going to the Gay-Straight Alliance meeting after school?” asks Steve. 

“I don’t know,” says Sam, uneasily. 

“Come on,” says Steve, looking at Sam earnestly. “We have to do our best to support the gay kids in our school, Sam,” he says. “We have to send a message that bullying isn’t okay,” he says, sweeping his bangs off of his forehead. 

“I know that,” says Sam, defensively. No one knows it yet, but Sam is one of those gay kids that Steve always wants to stick up for. He’s not quite sure why he hasn’t told Steve. It could be that Sam doesn’t want Steve to make him into a pet project; though he’s sure Steve would be respectful, he doesn’t want to run the chance of Steve outing him in a fit of passion. 

But that’s not the real reason. 

Truth is, Sam wants to keep this secret to himself a little longer — wants to hold the truth about himself close to his chest, while he gets a little more comfortable with his identity.

“So let’s go!” says Steve, eyes wide. “Come on, it’ll be really great to make new friends; meet other allies.”

“Okay, I guess,” says Sam, reluctantly.

“Cool!” says Steve, eyes shining. “I’m really excited. Have you met Bucky Barnes yet?”

“No, who’s that?” asks Sam.

“He’s the senior who runs the GSA. He’s really awesome! Oh look, he’s right over there!” says Steve, pointing at a handsome older kid sitting a few tables away with another group of seniors.

Sam pushes Steve’s hand down. “Jesus, Stevie,” mutters Sam. “Don’t just point at people in public.”

Bucky looks up, startled by the flurry of movement. He sees Steve and Sam; flashes a brilliant smile and waves. Sam feels something twist in his gut — the familiar jolt of energy he gets whenever a good-looking boy notices him. He looks down at his sandwich, suddenly ashamed of himself. 

Steve smiles at Bucky widely, his braces on full display. “Hi!” he shouts, as he waves. 

Bucky grins and salutes Steve with two fingers. He goes back to his conversation. 

“Oh my god,” says Sam, mortified. “Steve, you are so damn embarrassing.”

“What?” says Steve, unperturbed. “I was just saying hello.”

 

* * *

 

“Hi, I’m Steve Rogers, I’m a straight ally, and I decided to come to GSA because I’m passionate about supporting LGBT youth!” says Steve, in his high voice. He sounds so proud, so sure of himself. Sam is envious for a moment. 

It’s Sam’s turn. “Hey, I’m Sam, I’m here because Steve wanted me to come,” says Sam, quickly. The room chuckles. The next person speaks. 

There are maybe two or three actual LGBT kids in the entire room — many in the room declares themselves to be allies, though Sam wonders how many of them, like him, are lying. Even more don’t identify in any way.

“Cool,” says Bucky, smiling. “So now that we have gotten introductions and ground rules out of the way, I thought we could talk about what we want to accomplish this year. This is only the second year that the Northside GSA has existed, and last year we did a really good job with our Stamp Out Homophobia campaign—”

“Yeah we did!” a chubby girl with blue hair interrupts, gleefully. 

Bucky smiles, sheepishly, and continues. “So this year, I thought we should continue the campaign, maybe branch out from doing PSAs on the morning announcements and flyers.”

“What would you want to see us do beyond what we did last year, Bucky?” an older boy asks. He’s Asian; very good-looking. Probably another senior. 

“I’m glad you asked, Jim!” says Bucky, sounding excited. He launches into an explanation of a broad-minded plan to go into classrooms and talk about the effects of homophobia and transphobia on youth; on the importance of challenging gender and sexuality stereotypes.

“Wait, you want me to go into home ec and tell the cheerleaders and the football players that they need to subvert the gender binary?” Jim asks, a little skeptically. 

The room titters with laughter. 

“Nothing so extreme,” says Bucky, taken aback. “We just want to get people thinking about this stuff.”

“I think it’s a great idea!” says Steve, piping up. Sam wants to groan; wants to curl in on himself with embarrassment. “We should be challenging problematic narratives about gender, wherever we find them!” Steve glares at Jim as if he has personally offended Steve with his skepticism

“What he said,” says Bucky, pointing at Steve. (Steve practically  _ glows _ with happiness at being singled out.) “Look, I know this is going to be hard. No one has to do it if they feel uncomfortable, or if they think it’ll paint a target on their back. But I’m going to do it. If anyone wants to join me, that would be awesome.”

The meeting wraps up, and Steve turns to Sam, looking excited. “I’m going to ask Mr. Rosita if we can give a presentation to our Earth Science class!”

“No,” says Sam, shortly. He knows what Steve wants, and he’s not inclined to give it to him.

“Come  _ on _ Sam,” says Steve, frustrated. “This is our chance to do something really good for our school!”

“I said no, Steve,” says Sam. “I don’t want to do it.” He doesn’t want to go into any classroom and talk about the effects of homophobia on queer youth. It’s just too raw a subject for him, right now. 

“Then who am I supposed to do it with?” asks Steve, looking crestfallen. 

“Anyone!” says Sam, frustrated. He gestures at the room. “This whole club is full of people you can do it with. Just not me.”

“I just thought we’d be great at it,” says Steve, dejected. There is a slump to his shoulders that wasn’t there before. 

“I’m sorry, Steve,” says Sam. He feels terrible. “I just can’t.”

 

* * *

Steve makes good on his word, the next few weeks. He pairs up with Elaine, a sophomore who, like Steve, is a declared straight ally. Together, they take on the challenge of educating Northside High’s students about the issues facing the LGBT community . 

Sam busies himself in schoolwork. It provides a useful distraction; it drowns out the uncomfortable feeling Sam has that Steve is gaining more satisfaction from his GSA activities than he is in being Sam’s friend.

“Bucky totally could kick Gil Hodge’s ass,” says Steve, happily. He’s lying on his stomach, drawing an anti-bullying flyer for the GSA. His legs kick back and forth in the air; he looks utterly content. 

“Okay,” says Sam, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. He’s lying back on his couch, trying to concentrate on his geometry homework, and Steve’s making it hard to do so. 

“You should have seen Bucky take on Hodge yesterday after school. It was incredible.”

“What do you mean?” asks Sam, looking at Steve, curiosity getting the better of him.

“Hodge was going on about how someone was a faggot and Bucky almost jumped him.” says Steve, happily. 

“Was there a fight?” asks Sam. 

“Not really. Bucky slammed Hodge up against the lockers and told him to watch his mouth. It was over, after that,” says Steve. “It was really cool.”

“I hope you didn’t get involved,” says Sam.. 

“I didn’t, don’t worry,” says Steve, rolling his eyes. “I wanted to, but Bucky beat me to it.”

“What were you doing around Bucky, anyway?” says Sam. “He’s a senior, why do you spend so much time together?”

“We don’t spend that much time together,” says Steve, blushing, slightly. He looks as if he’s been caught out. “I ran into him in the hallway after third period and we started talking.” Steve won’t look at Sam as he says this. Sam doesn’t think Steve is telling the whole truth, but decides not to press. 

* * *

 

 

“Equal rights now!” yells Steve, face pink in the October chill. 

They are standing outside Eliot Spitzer’s offices in Manhattan, wielding signs that plead for the Attorney General to support the latest marriage equality bill that is currently wending its way through the Assembly. Sam clutches his sign so hard he leaves dents in the posterboard. The hastily drawn sign is a poor relative of Steve’s much more neatly produced version — Sam knows he deliberately did a lousy job out of some passive aggressive sense of malice towards Steve; towards Bucky Barnes; towards this whole shoddy enterprise.

“Isn’t this great?” Steve says to Sam, thin face beaming. 

“Yeah,” says Sam, smiling back uncertainly. Sam wonders what he’ll do if his mom sees him out here, protesting for gay rights. She works at a hospital in a completely different part of the borough, but for a moment, Sam imagines that she works at the one across the street from where he is now; imagines her coming out on her break, seeing him holding a sign that says “LEGALIZE GAY MARRIAGE.” Sam imagines the conversation that would ensue, and wants to shudder. 

“Hey guys,” says Bucky, who has appeared behind them suddenly. 

“Hi, Bucky!” squeaks Steve, from underneath the large scarf Sam insisted he wear. He has a ridiculously large smile on his face. Bucky smiles at Steve, with a fond expression.

“How are you doing? Keeping warm?” asks Bucky. 

“Yeah!” says Steve, looking at Bucky with adoration. 

“Great! We’re probably going to wrap up in fifteen minutes or so; head to Burger King. You guys in?”

“I’ve got to go home,” says Sam. He resolutely does not look at Steve, who he knows is looking at him with big, betrayed eyes. 

“ _ I’ll  _ come,” says Steve, a little defiantly.

When Bucky leaves, Steve turns to Sam. Before Steve can say anything, Sam speaks. “I have to go home, Steve.”

“You can’t spare fifteen minutes to have dinner with the team?” asks Steve, hurt written on his face. 

“My mom’s expecting me,” says Sam. “Besides, I’m low on cash.”

“I’ll front you,” says Steve.

“My mom’s expecting me,” Sam repeats. She’s not, in actual fact. She’s working a double. Steve doesn’t have to know that. 

“Well, sucks for you, then,” says Steve, trying to adopt a nonchalant tone. He is failing. 

“Have fun with Bucky,” says Sam, a little bitterly.

 

* * *

Sam strips his shirt off, rummages in his locker for his gym clothes. He has decided to hang back after school; use the weight machines. He finds it clears his mind to work his body — the burn in his muscles he gets from using the machines is intoxicating. He goes into the shower booth to change, and draws the curtain around him — even though there’s no one in the locker room, Sam likes the guarantee of privacy that the shower brings. 

“Jesus, Bucky, we’re in public,” comes a hushed voice. 

Sam freezes. He knows that voice.

“Come on Jim, you chicken?” says Bucky, voice dark. There’s a hint of playfulness in his tone that sends a shiver down Sam’s spine.  

Jim Morita chokes out a laugh that turns into a moan. 

Sam starts to panic. He has two options. He can clear his throat loudly, he can leave the shower stall — make it obvious that there’s another person in the locker room. Or he can do nothing; he can stay in one place, and hope this isn’t going in the direction he thinks it is going in. 

“Bucky, you’re fucking evil,” gasps Jim. 

Bucky doesn’t respond.

Sam peeks out from behind the curtain. Jim is shirtless, leaning against the lockers, his head thrown back against the metal doors. Jim’s pants are opened at the fly, pushed down — Bucky’s  _ head  _ is there. It bobs up and down.

Sam jerks the shower curtain closed. His cheeks heat as he hears Jim moan, and he curses himself for giving into temptation and looking in the first place. 

It’s Bucky’s turn to moan, now. Sam shrinks to the corner of the shower stall, screws his eyes shut. He claps his hands over his ears. The noises are muffled, but not eliminated. 

It seems to go on forever. Finally Jim cries out, and there’s a loud  _ thud  _ — images, unbidden, come to Sam’s mind. Has Jim turned around, pushed Bucky onto the lockers? Is he fucking Bucky’s mouth? Sam groans, silently, sinks to the floor.

Another yell, from Jim. More throaty noises, from Bucky. A final curse, and silence. 

“Thanks, Jimmy,” says Bucky, after a moment, voice considerably deeper. 

Jim laughs, incredulous. “What are you thanking me for, dude? You did all the work.”

“Wanted to do that for a while now,” says Bucky.

“You perv,” says Jim, lightheartedly. Their voices fade into the distance; they have presumably left the locker room. 

Sam peeks out from behind the curtain once again, and sees that the locker room is empty, finally. He waits at least five minutes before leaving. 

 

* * *

 

Sam rings the doorbell, and Sarah Rogers opens the door. 

“Sam!” she says. “You’re early! We weren’t expecting you until seven.” She gives Sam one of those big mom hugs that are Sarah’s speciality. 

“Hi Mrs. Rogers,” says Sam, a little muffled. Sarah releases him and smiles at him widely. “Wasn’t doing anything,” says Sam. “Thought I’d come over and see what Steve is up to.”

“Your bet is as good as anyone’s,” says Sarah. A hint of exasperation shows in her tone. “He’s been holed up in his room, blasting music.”

Sam goes upstairs, and pushes open Steve’s door. Madonna is playing on the ancient boom box Steve keeps above his desk.  _ Like A Prayer. _ Steve is shirtless, dancing around his room, utterly oblivious to Sam’s intrusion. He’s using his old teddy bear as his microphone and he is lip syncing to the song. His eyes are closed as he pretends to croon into the teddy bear’s head. 

Sam watches Steve frolic a little before loudly clearing his throat. 

Steve spins around, and upon noticing Sam, arms fall limply to his side. He turns red. “Uh, hey man,” says Steve, voice cracking a little in his embarrassment. 

“Hey,” says Sam, grinning. 

“What’s — what’s up?” asks Steve, still flushed. 

“You do realize this is blackmail material for years to come, right?” says Sam, a little gleefully.

“Shut up,” says Steve. 

“Man, I wish I had recorded this,” says Sam, laughing. 

“Sam,  _ shut up _ ,” says Steve, a little louder. 

“The  _ look _ on your face!” Sam says, ignoring Steve. 

“Shut  _ UP _ !” yells Steve, and throws the teddy bear at Sam. It bounces off Sam’s chest, and Sam looks at it on the floor. The bear stares back at Sam, with its dead, plastic teddy bear eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” says Steve, voice suddenly small. He sits heavily on the bed, looking at his hands. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Steve, are you okay?” asks Sam, quietly.

“Not really,” says Steve.

“What’s wrong?” asks Sam. He moves over to the bed; sits next to Steve.

Steve is still staring at his hands. They’re trembling a little bit. “Sam, I… I think I like someone,” he says, quietly.

“Like…. You  _ like _ like someone?” asks Sam, a little cautiously. An idea is forming in his mind, an idea of the direction this conversation is headed. His stomach sinks, a little. 

“Yeah,” says Steve.

“Like you liked Alyssa in the second grade?” asks Sam.

“Yeah,” says Steve. He sounds miserable. 

“Who is it?” asks Sam.

Steve doesn’t answer.

“Is it…. is it a guy?” asks Sam, gently.

A fat tear rolls off Steve’s cheek; falls on his trembling hands. He says nothing. Sam sighs, and takes one of Steve’s hands in his. It’s thin and wiry, but Steve has long fingers; a broad palm. Sam wonders, sometimes, if Steve’s body will ever grow enough to catch up with his hands. 

“Steve?” asks Sam.

“Yeah?” says Steve, voice barely above a whisper. 

“Do you like Bucky?”

“How’d you know?” says Steve, turning his gaze onto Sam, pain written on his features. 

Sam wants to smile, but doesn’t. “I know you pretty well, turns out,” says Sam. 

“He’s graduating in the spring, and I’ll never see him again,” says Steve, dejectedly. 

“You’re fourteen,” says Sam, simply. “He’s seventeen.”

“I know,” says Steve. “But we won’t always be fourteen, and seventeen.”

Sam is silent. 

“What?” says Steve, a little sharply. “Don’t be like that. Just because I like an older guy…”

“It’s not that,” says Sam, quickly. “Well, maybe it is a little that.”

Steve doesn’t speak, for a moment. Then, quietly: “I know it’s kind of messed up.”

“It’s not messed up,” says Sam. “Bucky is… Bucky. I get it.”

“You do?” asks Steve, turning to Sam, eyes wide.

“Yeah, Steve,” says Sam, smiling. “Bucky’s cool. He’s like, the definition of cool.”

“He’s  _ so _ cool,” says Steve, a little dreamily. 

Sam laughs. “Wow, you  _ really _ like Bucky,” he says, teasing. 

“Shut up,” says Steve, pushing at Sam’s shoulder. But at least he’s smiling. 

Sarah’s voice filters up from the kitchen. “Boys! Dinner!” she calls. 

“You ready?” asks Sam. Steve nods. 

Sam turns around to go downstairs. Just before he does, Steve speaks. “Wait,” he says, in a halting voice. 

“Yeah?” asks Sam. 

“You don’t… you don’t care that I like a guy, right?” asks Steve, worry in his voice. 

Sam laughs. “Of course I don’t, come on dude.”

“Right, just checking,” says Steve, lightly. He pushes past Sam and takes the stairs first, leaving Sam to his thoughts. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for voyeurism (er, sort of nonconsensual? someone gets stuck in a locker room and has to pretend they're not there whilst two people Do It)


	12. Leroy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leroy gets into trouble. Bucky makes a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys. Massive apologies for how long it's been since I left off -- I started a new job in the interim, and it's been hard to manage my time. I refuse to abandon this story. It means far too much to me. So better late than never. And I'm writing Chapter 13 now. 
> 
> Thank you so much for sticking with it as long as you have, friends. It means so much to me. 
> 
> Trigger warning for this chapter in the endnotes, contains spoilers.

Bucky glances at his phone, sitting on the counter. It flashes at him, a green light in the dim of the bar. For a second he contemplates picking it up, dialling the number that he has spent so much time staring at over the past few weeks, he’s all but memorized it.

He looks away, quickly. 

It’s a quiet night in the bar. There are a group of bikers in the corner, talking to each other in low voices. Janine and Mad Max are there, drinking in relative silence. 

The Professor walks in. “Stella draught,” he orders, not looking at Bucky. 

“You ever ask for anything nicely in your entire life?” says Max, disgruntled.

“It’s fine,” says Bucky, and pours the beer.

“That’s the man’s job, Christ,” says the Professor, irritated. “No one butters me up when I go to work, why should I give Bucky a reach-around just for doing his job?”

Bucky places the beer in front of the Professor. He considers the Professor, for a moment.  _ Okay _ , Bucky thinks to himself. _ I’ll play.  _

“No one’s saying you have to please-and-thank-you me, John,” says Bucky, something like irritation rising in his tone. “But that tip jar hasn’t seen your money in about two years, and I think you owe me something, for how long you’ve been drinking here without paying.”

“Please,” says the Professor, rolling his eyes. “Tipping is just a scam to transfer the burden of properly compensating employees to the customer. It’s just a way for the employer to abdicate responsibility.”

The low murmur of the bar quiets further, as patrons listen to the Professor’s rant. Bucky is irritated — he knows the Professor well enough to know that the extra attention from his fellow drinkers was what he was actually after. 

“Agreed,” says Bucky. “But given that employers have abandoned their duty to actually pay employees what they’re worth, and given the fact that you, as a customer, have chosen to patron this establishment, shouldn’t you be doing whatever you can, in your capacity as an ethical consumer, to make sure I’m paid fairly?”

“Fuck that,” the Professor spits. Bucky can see specks of saliva land on the pint of beer the Professor holds. “It’s not my fault you decided to get a shitty fucking job,” he says, furious. 

“Shouldn’t you be doing everything in your power to make sure that I get compensated fairly for the labor I put into making your drinks?” continues Bucky, as if the Professor had never interrupted him in the first place. 

“What labor?” scoffs the Professor. “You pull a fucking handle, Bucky. It’s not a real job.”

“You shut up, you big bully!” says Janine, butting in unexpectedly. “Bucky fought for your freedom in Iraq! That’s more than you ever did! Show some respect!” 

She pronounces it “Eye-Rack”, Bucky notices. He wonders if he should correct her, tell her it was actually Afghanistan, and that he doesn’t consider what he did anything close to fighting for anyone’s freedoms. He decides against it. 

“It’s okay, Janine,” says Bucky, tired. He wishes the Professor would just leave; wishes he didn’t have to go through the rigamarole of throwing the Professor out. 

“It’s not okay!” says Janine, upset. “This asshole is in here disrespecting the fuckin’ troops everyday, and he got the nerve to talk that way to you, after all you’ve done for him!”

“What has Bucky ever done for me?” yells the Professor, dissolving into hysterical giggles. “Other than get his arm fucking blown up in Kandahar?”

“Out,” says Bucky, pointing at the door. He doesn’t particularly care about the dig, but he knows that the bikers at the other end of the bar are veterans, and that they are watching what’s going on with a little too much interest. 

“Wait,” says the Professor, holding up a finger. He chugs his beer, throws down some money — no tip, of course — and leaves. 

“What a fucking asshole,” says Janine, shaking her head. 

“I know,” says Bucky, pained. 

“He was born an asshole, he’s going to die an asshole,” said Janine, glowering. “Why do you still let him drink here, Bucky?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” said Bucky. “Guess I feel a little sorry for him. The guy doesn’t have many friends.”

Bucky goes over to the bikers, clears away the wrappers and dirty napkins from the take-out they ordered. He throws the trash in the bin, and realizes the can is getting a little full. He pulls the bag out, ties it off, walks it out back. He throws the trash bag into the dumpster in the back, and is about to go back into the bar when he hears a moan from the other side of the dumpster. 

Bucky rounds the corner, and there lies Leroy, beaten and bloodied up, shirt torn. He smells like vomit. 

“Jesus, Leroy,” says Bucky, almost too shocked to move. 

“Buck?” whispers Leroy, voice cracked, wavering. “S’at you?”

“Holy shit, dude,” says Bucky. He crouches down, and tries to evaluate what’s wrong with Leroy. There are scrapes up and down his midsection, gravel that has gotten inside his wounds. There’s a head-wound — blood has dripped down Leroy’s face. “What the fuck happened to you?”

“I think I got jumped,” says Leroy, eyes rolling to the back of his head. 

Bucky runs back into the bar. He grabs his phone off the counter, dials 911. 

The bar quiets as his patrons listen to his conversation with emergency dispatch. He takes a fresh bar rag — this one is actually new, for a change — wets it with warm water, and hurries outside. On Bucky’s orders, Janine follows with a glass of water. 

“Come on, Leroy,” says Bucky, crouching down beside the man, propping his head up. Bucky takes the glass of water from a stunned-silent Janine, and puts it to Leroy’s lips. Leroy drinks, greedily. 

“What the fuck happened?” says Max, who has followed the two out of the bar. He sounds scared; unsettled. 

Bucky ignores Max, and puts the now-empty glass down. He starts working at Leroy’s wounds, getting the washrag red with blood, ignoring Leroy’s whimpers of pain. The cuts ooze — Bucky is surprised at how vivid the red is. Doesn’t matter how many times he’s seen blood, he’s always surprised at how red it is. 

“What happened, man?” asks Max, this time addressing his friend. 

“I… I don’t remember,” says Leroy. He tries to prop himself up on his hands, and groans with the effort of moving. There are defensive wounds on his hands, cuts to his palms that were pretty obviously made by a knife. 

“Stay still,” Bucky commands, his voice sharp. 

“Bucky, can we bring him in?” asks Janine, timidly.

“I wouldn’t, Janine,” says Bucky, who has switched to cleaning another long cut, this one on Leroy’s torso. “He’s beat up pretty bad. I don’t know about internal bleeding.”

“I hope you didn’t call 911,” says Leroy. His voice is thin, but stronger now that he has had some water to drink. 

“Of course we did,” says Janine, her customary indignance reasserting itself. The shock has worn off, just a little. 

“You have a head injury, Leroy,” says Bucky, by way of explanation. 

“C’mon y’all, it ain’t that bad,” says Leroy, who tries to smile through a split lip. “Been through worse.”

“I’m sure you have, buddy,” says Bucky.

The ambulance comes, and Bucky lets Janine take over, as he goes out front to meet the EMTs. He brings the paramedics through the bar, out back, and watch as they carefully load a protesting Leroy onto the stretcher, back through the bar, and into the ambulance. 

“Goddamn assholes,” says Leroy, through grit teeth as he is jostled as they push him up the ramp and into the back of the van. 

Bucky wants to laugh at Leroy’s insistence on being grumpy. The most he can manage is a small smile. 

“Where are you taking him?” Bucky asks the paramedic.

“Sacred Heart Memorial,” the man responds. “Just gonna get him checked out, see how bad he is, if he’s concussed or not,”

“Thanks, guys,” he says. 

“No problem,” says the paramedic. The ambulance drives off and Bucky lets out a deep breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

It is a sweltering evening in July. There is a haze in the air; the rays of the setting sun have illuminated the dust swirling in the air — it is pollution, he knows, but there is something incongruently beautiful about it. Bucky lifts his face, squints at the orange clouds, wonders if he should let out a scream, or a yell — if there’s something he can do to make this feeling of tightness in his chest go away, something that will let him release the tension he’s been holding in his body for weeks.

“You coming back inside?” Janine asks. Bucky turns to face her — he didn’t even know she was standing there. 

“Yeah,” says Bucky, gruffly. He turns and retreats back into the bar.

 

* * *

Bucky walks down the hospital corridor, checking room numbers against the number the harried nurse at the desk had given him. The walls are clinically white, scrubbed clean — Bucky reflects on how different an environment this is than the ones he is used to. 

He sees the right number on a door, and enters. 

“Hey man,” he says, to Leroy, who is dozing in a hospital bed. There are bandages wrapped around Leroy’s head — it is strange to see the man without his cowboy hat. 

“Bucky?” says Leroy, waking from his nap. “Is that you?”

“Yeah,” says Bucky, suddenly feeling a little awkward. He shoves his hands in his pockets. It’s a little strange for a bartender to be checking up on a customer, isn’t it?

Leroy’s face splits into a wide grin. “Doing home delivery, now? This is a hell of a service Ivan’s offering,” he jokes. 

Bucky has to smile. “Nah, I’m empty-handed. I don’t think Nurse Ratched out there would like it very much if I brought you a delivery of Fireball,” he says, coming to the side of Leroy’s bed. 

“Damn,” says Leroy, but there’s no heat in his voice. He seems overjoyed to have a visitor. 

“How are you, man?” asks Bucky. 

“Good, good,” says Leroy. “Well, except for this,” he says, pointing at his head. “They want to keep me under observation for a day or so, and they’re going to give me a brain scan, make sure it’s not a serious concussion,” he says.

“Man,” says Bucky, shaking his head. “What the hell happened, Leroy?” He pulls up the folding chair that is next to the hospital bed, sits down next to the patient.

Leroy shakes his head, looks down at his hands, looks down at his surprisingly delicate fingers. Color rises to his cheeks.

“I needed cash,” he says, not looking at Bucky.

Bucky remains silent, hardly daring to breathe. He truly doesn’t know what Leroy’s about to tell him, but he knows it can’t be good. 

“Sometimes, when I need cash, or… or drugs, I do things, Bucky,” says Leroy. 

“Oh, Leroy,” says Bucky. “You don’t have to tell me more, if you don’t want to,” he says, desperately, hoping Leroy doesn’t feel obligated to spill. 

“It’s not as big a deal for me, as it is for other guys,” says Leroy, shrugging, trying to keep his voice nonchalant. “I used to it all the time, just not for money, back when I was younger.”

“You get it, don’t you?” he says suddenly, voice sharp. He glances at Bucky, then looks away again. “I’ve seen you with that blonde kid.”

Bucky swallows. “Steve,” he says, hoarsely. “Yeah, we were together.” Why hide it? Nothing to hide from Leroy, not when Leroy is giving his secrets to Bucky, with trust and care. 

“If Max knew, or John…” says Leroy, screwing his eyes tightly shut. 

“They won’t ever find out,” Bucky promises, surprised at the steel in his voice. He knows it’s true. He’ll take Leroy’s secret to the grave. 

“So yeah,” says Leroy, smiling at Bucky, weakly. “That’s what happened. Someone didn’t want to pay afterwards, and beat the hell out of me for bothering to ask.”

“Did you report it?” asks Bucky. 

“They asked if I wanted to file something,” says Leroy, dismissively. “I don’t know the guy’s name, and even if I did…” Leroy shrugs. 

Bucky doesn’t press. He gets it. There’s no way something like that would ever end up in Leroy’s favor. 

“Did you meet him at my bar?” asks Bucky.

“Yeah,” says Leroy. “It was one of the bikers from last night,” he says. “Homophobic asshole,” he says again, with a little more venom in his voice. 

“Do me a favor, okay man?” asks Bucky. “When he comes in again, point him out to me, would you?”

“Why?” says Leroy, suspicious. 

“Because I don’t want to serve him,” says Bucky, firmly. 

“You’re not going to kill him, are you?” asks Leroy, leaning back into his pillows, a weary smile on his face. 

Bucky is taken aback. “No. Why would you think I would?” asks Bucky. 

“I don’t know, man. You’ve got a lot of rage in you, I can tell,” says Leroy, smiling faintly.

“I do?” asks Bucky, surprised.

“Yeah. You remind me of me, sometimes.”

Bucky stays until Leroy dozes off to sleep. He watches Leroy for a minute, before getting up and leaving, quietly closing the door behind him.

He leans back on the walls of the hospital corridor, wondering if it would be possible to sink into them; to be absorbed into the tile, to cease to exist. Fishing around in his pocket, he retrieves his phone; looks at it. He takes a deep breath, and dials the number. 

“Hello?” Steve answers. His voice is quiet, subdued. 

“Steve,” says Bucky, willing his voice to stay calm. “I think we need to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: violence, prostitution.


	13. Reunion: Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Steve sit down and try to talk things out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess this chapter is an apology for making y'all wait so long in between installments. I think I'm on a writing sprint. No more for at least a week, though, so don't get your hopes too high for Chapter 14 in the next few days. I can only really afford to write on the weekends, these days. 
> 
> I hope you like this one, I've been waiting to write these scenes for about a year.

 

A waitress walks up to Bucky’s booth. “Can I get you more coffee, hon?” she asks, kindly. 

“No, thanks,” says Bucky. If he ingests any more caffeine, he might puke. She smiles at him and walks away. Bucky watches her retreat, nervously. He fiddles with his empty mug, swirling the dregs of his cold coffee. Where is Steve? He checks his phone again. Fifteen minutes late.  _ This is so incredibly unlike him _ , thinks Bucky with a hint of frustration, and then feels ashamed of himself for thinking ill of someone he’s wronged so deeply. 

Incredibly, another five minutes pass, another five minutes of Bucky waiting in the booth, politely deflecting the waitress’s questions, five minutes of increasing dread growing in the pit of Bucky’s stomach —  _ is Steve going to blow me off?  _ Bucky thinks — before the bell rings, the door swings open, and Steve enters the diner. 

Bucky sees Steve speak to the hostess, who points at Bucky. Steve looks over to Bucky. He turns back to the hostess, thanks her, with a smile. (Bucky  _ aches _ , at that.) Steve makes his way over to Bucky’s booth, and slides into the bench facing Bucky. 

Bucky can’t help but take a moment to look at him. Steve looks perfectly put together, if you didn’t know Steve. His hair is combed neatly, but there are bags under his eyes, there’s a tightness to his lips that usually isn’t there. He watches Bucky warily.

“Hi, Steve,” says Bucky, finally.

“Bucky,” says Steve. It’s measured.

“Thanks for agreeing to meet me,” says Bucky, gripping the handle of the mug with his metal hand. He tries not to hold it too hard — doesn’t need to break it. Doesn’t need the spectacle, right now.

“Yeah, sorry I’m late,” says Steve. He doesn’t sound particularly sorry.

The waitress comes by, and Steve turns to her and smiles, easily. Bucky feels jealous for a moment, watching him interact with her so smoothly, watching her smile and tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, as she writes down Steve’s order. 

She leaves, and Steve turns back to Bucky. The smile slides off his face, and he is stony silent. 

“How have you been?”asks Bucky, searching for something to say. 

“You know, not great,” Steve says, just short of snapping. 

Bucky winces, slightly, and looks down at his hands. He doesn’t dare look up. 

“Finals are approaching,” says Steve, after a moment, softening. “I’m busy helping the kids write their papers.”

“That’s nice,” says Bucky, for want of something to say.

“So, what is it that you wanted to tell me?” says Steve, a sharpness returning to his tone. 

Bucky takes a deep breath; forces himself to look at Steve. There’s raw anger written in Steve’s face, made all the more painful by the fact that Steve is so clearly trying to affect nonchalance. 

“I wanted to apologize for what I did to you, Steve. I could have handled things better. And…. and I didn’t mean what I said to you, that night.”

Steve barks out a laugh, shakes his head. “You have no idea,” he says, voice laden with frustration. 

“No idea of what?” asks Bucky, timidly. This isn’t going the way he expected it would. Steve’s angry. Angrier than Bucky’s ever seen him. 

“You have no idea of what I’m going through, do you?” says Steve, continuing on as if Bucky had never spoken. “You have no idea the hell I’ve been in. And now you want to say sorry?” His voice drops down to a hoarse whisper, like he’s holding back tears. “I’m so fucking angry at you, Bucky Barnes.”

Bucky nods, miserably. “I know.”

“I told you I loved you. And you… you cut me out. Entirely. Like I never mattered.”

“You matter,” says Bucky, automatically.

“You fucked someone else, Bucky. You disappeared. You didn’t talk to me,” Steve says, finally. 

“You matter,” says Bucky again, helplessly. “You’re so much, Steve. You’re… you’re everything. I’m nothing. I’m the one who doesn’t matter.” His voice chokes, and he stops talking for a moment. Bucky looks down, looks at the formica table, the coffee mug, the napkin. Anywhere but at Steve. Embarrassing tears form in his eyes, and he frantically blinks them away. 

He hazards a glance at Steve, because he is trash and can’t help himself. Steve is staring at Bucky with an open mouth. 

“What are you talking about?” Steve asks, amazed. “I’ve loved you since I was fourteen, and you’re going to sit here and try to convince me that you don’t matter?” he asks, getting worked up. “That’s the problem, Bucky — you’re not listening to me. You never listened to me.”

Bucky is silent.

“You say I never met you in my whole life, that I formed a fantasy of you when I was a kid and I haven’t figured out that you’re not that fantasy — well I could say the same thing about you,” says Steve, passionately. “You never saw me as someone to take seriously. You still see me as that kid, that kid whose affections you can take for granted and… and treat like garbage when you think you have me.”

“Steve…” starts Bucky. Because it’s not like that at all. At all. Can’t Steve see that Bucky isn’t good enough for him? Can’t he just let Bucky go?

“No, you listen to me,” says Steve, sharply. Bucky nods, chastened. “You can’t make this okay. You hurt me. I’m not going to be okay for a while.”

“I understand,” says Bucky, miserably. He was so stupid for thinking that one face-to-face meeting would make Steve feel better, would set things to right.

“I might as well know everything,” says Steve. “Who was it?”

“Who was who?” asks Bucky, quietly. He knows what Steve’s asking. He knew this question was coming. 

“The guy. The one you fucked,” says Steve, voice dripping with disdain. 

Bucky doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything. How do you admit to something like this?

“Come on, I don’t have all day,” says Steve. 

“My landlord,” says Bucky, finally. 

“Your…” Steve trails off. He looks confused. 

“Yeah,” says Bucky. “He… and I. Yeah.”

“You’ve been fucking your landlord?” says Steve, tentatively, eyes wide. 

“Yes,” says Bucky. It feels like as if he could melt into the floor. He’s never felt more guilty, more dirty in his entire life.

“Why?” asks Steve. 

Bucky looks up at Steve. It wasn’t what he was expecting Steve to say. 

“Why?” repeats Bucky, dumbly. 

“Yeah, why? Of all the people, why him?”

“I mean, it wasn’t…” _a choice_ , Bucky realizes he is about to say. He stops himself. He knows what that sounds like. 

“Why did you sleep with your landlord, Bucky?” Steve asks, firmly. 

“I was short,” says Bucky, uncomfortably. “That month. I was short.”

Steve swears under his breath, places his head in his hands, grips his hair, pulls. He swears again. 

Bucky is alarmed. He doesn’t understand what’s happening. “Steve?” asks Bucky, tentatively. 

“Yeah, Bucky,” says Steve. He’s breathing deeply, like he’s trying to stave off a panic attack. Or maybe he’s angry. Bucky can’t tell what’s happening. 

“I’m sorry, Steve,” says Bucky, quietly. “I shouldn’t have done it. I should have been more careful with my money.”

Steve looks up, and pounds the table with his fist. Bucky flinches. “Shut up,” says Steve, severely. 

Bucky shuts up. 

“You did nothing wrong, Bucky,” Steve says. 

_ Wait, what? _

“You were coerced into having sex with someone who wielded power over you. You were told that if you didn’t have sex with him, you’d be evicted, right?” says Steve. He sounds like he’s about to cry. 

“I mean,” says Bucky. He opens his mouth to say that that’s not what happened, except he  _ can’t _ , because it  _ did _ , that’s  _ exactly _ what happened — 

“You were raped, Bucky. You didn’t cheat on me. You didn’t sleep with someone else. You were raped,” says Steve, voice ragged with emotion. 

Bucky finds he’s standing up. He’s reaching in his pocket and pulling out a few crumpled ones, he’s throwing them on the table. 

“Please, Bucky—” says Steve, reaching out, grabbing Bucky by the metal wrist. 

Bucky wrenches his arm out of Steve’s grasp. 

He turns and leaves.

 

* * *

 

Steve is pacing in his kitchen. 

He considers, for the fifth time, calling Sam. Sam’s in New Orleans, on his once-yearly vacation with Riley. He doesn’t, ultimately. Not because he thinks he’ll bother Sam, he knows Sam wants to be bothered with this kind of thing, but because he doesn’t know that he’ll be able to keep what happened to Bucky under wraps, and he knows that Bucky doesn’t want it being spread around. 

He considers calling Wanda. Same problem. He can’t tell anyone. It just won’t work. 

He looks at his phone, looks at the string of text messages he’s left for Bucky. Ten in all; ten, with no response. He isn’t expecting Bucky to respond, of course — he knows, by now, that this is how Bucky works.

Steve decides to make a cup of tea. It’s what his mother would do, in times of stress. He briefly considers calling Sarah, and discards the idea. It’s not something she’d have any idea of how to handle. 

He is halfway through pouring water into the electric kettle when the doorbell rings. He nearly drops the kettle in the sink. 

He rushes over to the door, opens it, and it’s Bucky; Bucky, at the door, looking disheveled, wearing the same clothes he had worn to the diner, yesterday, five o’clock shadow blooming on his face. 

“Thank you for coming,” says Steve, stepping to the side, letting Bucky come through the door. Bucky doesn’t smell great, Steve realizes, as Bucky files past him. He smells like whiskey and unwash. His hair looks greasy, and Steve wonders where Bucky slept last night. 

Bucky turns to look at Steve, except he doesn’t. He looks at the floor, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He says nothing. Steve feels a pang, from somewhere deep in his chest. He walks up to Bucky, and rests his hands on his arms, rubs them up and down. Bucky is tense, and grows tenser as Steve draws Bucky in, deep into his arms. Steve rests his face in the crook of Bucky’s neck, inhales deeply. He doesn’t care how grimy Bucky is, because underneath that, underneath all that dirt, there’s an earthy, addictive scent —  _ Bucky’s _ . 

“I missed you, darling,” Steve murmurs, and Bucky draws his arms up, tentatively, around Steve. He doesn’t hold tight, it isn’t quite a hug, but it’s something, and Steve is grateful. 

“I don’t know why,” says Bucky, grimly. It’s supposed to be a joke, but Steve doesn’t laugh. He brings his hands up to cradle Bucky’s head. 

“I love you, that’s why,” says Steve, heart racing. 

Bucky steps away from Steve, disentangles from him, and stands there, shoulders hunched, looking at the floor. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” says Steve.

“I wasn’t raped,” says Bucky, clearly. 

Steve says nothing. 

“I’m a grown fucking man, Steve,” says Bucky, despairingly. He meets Steve’s gaze, and there is pain there, real pain. 

“I know you are, Buck,” says Steve, softly. 

“This shit can’t happen to me, not now,” says Bucky. “I’m military. I served. I  _ killed _ people,” he says, heat rising to his voice. 

“You could be The Rock for all I care, Bucky,” says Steve, patiently. “You could be the most manly man of all time, and you could still be violated that way. This person took advantage of you.”

“He shouldn’t have been able to,” says Bucky, and he sounds scared, now. Scared and young, very young. “I should have gone to a shelter before letting that happen to me. I was weak.”

“Hey, no,” says Steve, softly. He steps towards Bucky, cautiously, like he’s approaching a scared animal. “I don’t blame you. I don’t. Neither should you.”

“Why don’t you blame me?” asked Bucky. “Why don’t you hate me? Why are you being so nice to me?”

“I couldn’t hate you even if I tried,” said Steve, automatically. “I never hated you. I was angry at you, but I didn’t hate you, not even then.”

“I don’t understand you,” says Bucky, despairingly. 

“Let me have this,” says Steve, feeling warm. “Let me have you.”

“Will it make you happy?” says Bucky. 

“Yes,” says Steve, standing very still. 

Bucky looks at Steve, then. For the first time, really looks at Steve. “You’re insane,” he says, finally. 

“Yeah,” says Steve, smiling. 

Bucky smiles back, tentatively. 

Steve takes another step closer to Bucky, puts his hand on Bucky’s rough cheek. He kisses Bucky, then. Kisses him, despite the sour taste of cigarettes and whiskey. He’s never tasted anything so sweet in his life. Bucky brings his hand up, and Steve feels the cool of metal on his cheek. 

He can feel Bucky smile underneath his lips. “I have to go,” Bucky murmurs.

“Do you?” says Steve, wistfully. 

“Yeah. Work in an hour. Gotta go and get ready,” says Bucky. 

“Use my shower,” says Steve, pulling away, reluctantly. 

“Okay,” says Bucky, and Steve goes into the linen closet, grabs a neatly folded towel, giving Bucky a quick kiss and a playful swat on the ass as Bucky goes into the bathroom. 


	14. Reunion: Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Bucky's shift, he comes over to Steve's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. It's been forever. I'm not forgetting about this story, I promise you. Enjoy. Remember to comment. I live off your comments. It was someone's comment that spurred me to pick up where I left off, a few days ago. So yeah, I really appreciate comments.

Bucky lets himself in. He still has the key to Steve’s place, never gave it up after the break-up. Even when he was drinking himself black-out every night, even when he thought he’d never see Steve again, he still kept that key on its ring.

It’s dark in the apartment, but Bucky doesn’t turn the light on. He feels his way around the dinner table, blinking to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He opens the door to Steve’s bedroom. It swings open with a creak, and he holds his breath; Steve is asleep. The sheets are off his body, and Bucky takes a shameful moment to appreciate what he sees—the moonlight playing across him, almost like a caress. 

He toes off his shoes and slides into bed besides Steve, hitching his breath, willing his body to stop breathing, if it would mean Steve wouldn’t wake up. He lies there, tense, holding his body preternaturally still, heart beating fast. There is real heat radiating from Steve’s direction; the man is like a furnace, and part of Bucky wants so badly to curl up in the warmth. He gazes at Steve’s face, peaceful and still.

Steve opens his eyes, and Bucky’s heart skips a beat—because no matter how deeply Bucky desires Steve’s continued slumber, he still thrills a little whenever Steve is awake. A slow, sleepy smile spreads across Steve’s face. 

“Hi,” he says, snuggling into Bucky’s space, and Bucky inches forward, slowly, not quite sure what he’s doing. “What time is it?” asks Steve, sleepily.

“Four thirty,” says Bucky, voice scratchy from the cigarettes he smoked tonight.

“It’s early,” says Steve, an arm snaking around Bucky’s waist. 

“I came as soon as I could,” says Bucky, automatically. 

“I’m not upset, or anything,” says Steve, chuckling. “I know what you do for a living.” Steve pushes on Bucky’s hip, and after a moment, Bucky gets what Steve is trying to make him do. He turns, and Steve pulls him in close, spooning him from behind. Knees fit into the backs of other knees; a forearm slides against the divot of a waist. Steve nestles his face into the nape of Bucky’s neck, and Bucky tenses, before remembering that he washed his hair earlier that day, that Steve probably isn’t smelling anything too offensive. 

Tentatively, Bucky brings his arms up around; he holds Steve’s thick forearm awkwardly, conscious of metal on skin, hoping Steve isn’t finding his prosthesis cumbersome. Steve tightens his arms into a hug in response, humming slightly as he settles into holding Bucky.

 

* * *

Bucky wakes around ten; the morning sun bleeding through the edges of the opaque curtain. He blinks, letting himself adjust to the day, and realizes that his eyes are dry, that he is dehydrated. Carefully dislodging himself from Steve’s embrace—which had miraculously survived the night—Bucky leaves the bed, cautiously tip-toeing his way to the bathroom. His toothbrush is still there, Bucky notes, wanting to cry. Steve had been so furious at Bucky, but he hadn’t thrown out the damn toothbrush.

Bucky splashes water on his face, and looks at himself in the mirror. His eyes are bloodshot and tired, that much is true. But his skin; it doesn’t look as worn as it usually does. He might even be glowing, in the sunlight that filters in through the frosted glass of the window. His hair is thick, healthy. He doesn’t look particularly gaunt—that isn’t a word he’d use to describe himself. Thin, maybe, but not gaunt. And as for the premature wrinkles he usually can pick out—he doesn’t see anything past some lines around his eyes; crow’s feet. Bucky blinks, surprised. 

He is brushing his teeth when the door to the apartment opens. 

“You got that?” says one voice; deep, slightly accented.

“Yes, silly,” says a second voice, and Bucky freezes, because that’s Sam’s voice. “I work out too, you know. I can carry a damn suitcase.”

“I don’t know, Sammy,” said the unknown man, and Bucky can hear him smiling, somehow. “You lookin’ kind of skinny, lately.”

Sam grumbles, muttering something that Bucky can’t hear, and the other man laughs. “I always know how to press your buttons,” he says, gleefully. 

“And you better stop, if you know what’s good for you!” exclaims Sam, while the other man laughs more. 

Their voices grow closer and closer, and Bucky spits toothpaste into the sink. He doesn’t dare run the faucet to rinse his mouth out—doesn’t want Sam and his friend to be alerted to his presence because of the pipes clanging. 

“Just need to use the restroom, and I’ll join you,” says Sam, and Bucky’s heart flutters uncomfortably. He decides to pre-empt the inevitable, and leaves the bathroom, closing the door behind him, gently. 

Conversation ceases as Sam and Riley (Bucky has figured that much out) stare at Bucky. 

“Uh, hi,” says Bucky, uncomfortably. He is finding it hard to meet Sam’s eyes—Bucky does his best to look anywhere else but at him.

“Hi,” says Riley, eyes wide. 

“Bucky,” says Sam, in a measured tone. 

“I’m just gonna…” says Bucky, sliding towards Steve’s door. 

“Yeah,” says Sam. 

“Bye,” says Bucky, disappearing inside Steve’s room, heart beating fast. He closes the door, and rests his head on the wooden panel, cursing under his breath. 

“What’s wrong?” says Steve, who is wide awake and sitting up, sheets pooled around his waist. 

“Nothing,” says Bucky, quickly, and then winces, as he hears Sam and Riley talk outside. The voices are too low to make out any words, but Bucky wants to bet that they’re talking about him. 

Steve checks the alarm clock on the nightstand, and curses. He hops out of bed, pulling pajama pants on. “I can’t believe I slept so long,” says Steve, frantically. “Sam and Riley were due an hour ago. I meant to get breakfast ready for them.”

“I just ran into them,” admits Bucky. 

“Fuck,” says Steve. He tosses his t-shirt on. “Are you okay?” he asks Bucky. 

“Yeah,” says Bucky. 

“Okay,” says Steve. 

Bucky clears his throat. “Look, Steve—” 

“No,” says Steve, firmly. “You’re not leaving. We’ll sort this out.”

“He clearly hates me,” says Bucky, despairingly. 

“He has no reason to,” says Steve. 

“He has every reason to,” says Bucky. “I cheated on you, and left. I should just go.”

“ _ You didn’t cheat on me _ ,” says Steve, glaring at Bucky. “Stop  _ saying  _ that.”

Bucky doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing. 

“You’re not leaving. Whatever happens, you’re not leaving,” Steve says, firmly. There’s a bit of a plea in his voice. 

Bucky moves closer to Steve. “Hey,” says Bucky, gently. 

It’s Steve’s turn to say nothing. He looks at the ground, blinking. 

“ _ Hey _ ,” says Bucky, again. With trembling fingers, he hooks his finger underneath Steve’s chin, tilts Steve’s head up to meet his gaze. “I’m going to go now, but I’ll be back, okay?”

Steve grasps Bucky’s hand with both of his. “Do you promise?” asks Steve. His eyes are wide, full of vulnerability and hope. 

“Yes,” says Bucky, palming Steve’s face with his metal hand. “I’ll come back,” he says, in a whisper. Bucky rests his forehead against Steve’s, and they breathe there. 

“Okay,” says Steve, after a moment. “I believe you.” He pulls away from Bucky, disentangles from him. He looks at the door, takes a deep breath. He looks back at Bucky once before leaving the room. 

Bucky slips on his shoes, and waits a moment—waits until he can’t hear anything from outside the door—before leaving Steve’s apartment.

 

* * *

Steve walks into the kitchen, where Sam and Riley are engaged in furious conversation; conversation that falls silent, soon as Steve walks into the room. 

“Hey guys,” says Steve, affecting a cheerful tone. He pours out a healthy amount of Cheerios, gets the milk from the fridge. “Good trip?” he asks. 

There’s an awkward moment where no one says anything. Sam is looking at the floor. 

Finally, Riley speaks. “Great trip. Lots of food!”

“That’s awesome!” says Steve, a smile on his face, heart beating fast. “Sam, you have a good time too?” he asks, because Steve is apparently a masochist. 

“Great time,” says Sam, giving Steve a tight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Excellent. Sorry I wasn’t up before you guys came,” said Steve. “I meant to make you guys a big breakfast.”

“Oh, no worries,” says Riley. “We’ve been doing nothing but eating, all week.”

“Yeah, you were probably a little busy,” says Sam, sarcastically. Riley glares at Sam, who shoots him a defiant look. 

“What’s that supposed to mean, Sam?” says Steve, forcing his voice to be pleasant. 

“Is he still here?” asks Sam. 

“And if he was?” says Steve. 

“That’s not what I asked.”

Steve glares at Sam, all pretense of niceness dropped. “He left, for your information.”

“Good,” says Sam. Steve waits for more, but nothing else comes. Sam drops his eyes to yesterday’s newspaper, still splayed out on the kitchen island. 

“What’s  _ that  _ supposed to mean?” asks Steve, close to outraged.

“It means I’m glad he’s gone,” says Sam, turning the page. “Because he cheated on you, and then dumped you. In case you’ve forgotten.”

“Look, a lot happened while you were gone,” says Steve.

“I don’t want to hear it,” says Sam, simply. “This is selfish, Steve.”

White hot rage erupts somewhere in Steve’s chest. “Excuse me?” Steve chokes out. 

“You heard me,” says Sam, looking at Steve directly for the first time. He looks tired. He looks done. “You get your heart broken again, you don’t come to me, this time. I am sick of picking up the pieces after Bucky Barnes fucks with you, Steve. That’s not why I’m on this earth. I am not a bit player in your story.”

Steve turns away. He grips the granite countertop, hard enough he feels he could leave dents. He breathes: once, twice. Tries to get under control. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Steve. He wonders how much to tell Sam, and then realizes he can’t, he can’t tell Sam anything. Bucky hasn’t authorized that release of information. 

“Be that as it were,” says Sam. “I don’t care what—” 

“He’s the love of my life, Sam,” Steve blurts out, interrupting his friend. “I don’t care if you don’t think that’s real, or important enough. I’m willing to forgive a few indiscretions—”

“He cheated on you!” Sam yells, all pretense of reading the paper forgotten. “Forgive me if I care about that more than you do, right at this moment!”

“I can’t hear this,” says Steve, more to himself than anyone else. He clutches at his hair, his heart beating fast. “I can’t hear this,” he says again, making a decision. 

He goes to his room, shuts the door behind him, quickly changing into his running clothes. He leaves the apartment, leaves behind a glowering Sam and a worried-looking Riley, who is trying to talk Sam down. Steve runs for an hour and a half, pounding out his frustration and his anger onto the pavement. 

When he comes back, tired and sweat-drenched, Sam and Riley are gone. 


	15. At Barton Archery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky decides to visit Clint while Steve and Sam have a much-needed chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOT DIGGITY DAMN, two updates in a week? What can I say, I'm on a roll. I really want to finish this story, so I'm writing as fast I can. I have plans for these two. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Bucky is walking home. He has the money, he could actually take the bus today—but he chooses to walk, eschewing the convenience of public transport for hard, solid pavement under his feet. There’s something meditative about it, something grounding, after the utterly inconceivable events of the past few days. Bucky takes his time; observes his surroundings. He watches the broad leaves of the maple trees that line this neighborhood flutter in the thin breeze. He feels the late-August sun beating down on his back, the black of his t-shirt unquestioningly absorbing the heat, making him warm all over.

He takes in the people sitting on the park benches that line the sidewalk. He listens to the scraps of conversations he can gather as he walks past everyone—the haggling over prices, the sharing of gossip, the excited chatter of children fighting over some toys. He passes the African aunties, looking regal in their headdresses, as they sit and breathe, their shopping resting at their ankles. He passes the Dominican grandfathers who have gathered to play chess, the richly-scented smoke from their cigars making Bucky feel momentarily lightheaded. The sounds of the city at noon reverberate through him; the ever-present sirens in the distance, the rumble of cars and trucks on the narrow streets.

He has work in about seven hours, which presents him with a slight dilemma of what to do with his excess time.

He could turn left, and walk to his apartment. This option, he instantly disregards, not without some shame. He hasn’t been to his apartment since he effectively moved to Natasha’s—hasn’t been brave enough to go back to his own space and be his own person.

He could turn right, and continue on to Nat’s, but he doesn’t quite want the interrogation that might ensue, doesn’t want to reveal to Natasha exactly what has happened. Her ensuing joy might be too much for him, right now.

There’s a third option, one he’s never taken before. He could continue straight on, for another ten blocks or so, and arrive at the archery range Clint runs. It’s Saturday morning, so it might be busy, might not be. Bucky isn’t really sure what the archery business is like, on weekends. But he knows Clint is there — by now, Bucky has memorized both Clint and Natasha’s schedules.

He decides to visit Clint.

 

* * *

 

The door jingles as Bucky steps through, and the girl sitting at the front looks up to see who it is, and goes back to reading her magazine. The front room of Barton Archery is small; not necessarily what you’d call cramped, more cosy than anything else. Archery magazines are scattered here and there, and the walls are decorated with framed pictures of a much younger Clint Barton receiving gold medal after gold medal, the same sheepish grin in each photograph.

Bucky approaches the receptionist, her brown hair in a high ponytail, boot-clad feet crossed and resting on the front desk. She looks utterly unbothered by his presence.

“Our introductory class starts in an hour,” she says, barely glancing at Bucky. “It’s nearly full, so you better reserve your slot now.” She turns the page of her magazine.

“Uh, I was hoping to speak to Clint?” asks Bucky. “He’s a friend of mine.”

The receptionist leans over to her desk phone, presses the intercom button. “This is Hawkeye One, paging Hawkeye Two, over,” she says, not taking her eyes off the page.

“What is it, Kate?” says Clint, over the intercom. He sounds exasperated.

“You got a skinny hipster here to see you,” she says, looking up at Bucky, boredom written on her face. “Says he’s a friend of yours.”

“Uh, is it Bucky?” asks Clint, and Bucky feels annoyed that “skinny hipster” was enough to correctly identify him.

“How should I know?” says Kate, into the intercom.

“Ask him, silly,” says Clint.

“Are you Bucky?” Kate asks.

Bucky nods, self-consciously tucking his hair back behind his ears.

“It’s Bucky,” says Kate, into the intercom.

“Hey man,” says Clint, addressing Bucky directly. “Come back around, I’m the second door to the right.”

Bucky looks at the door that leads into the range, and then looks back at Kate, raising his eyebrows.

Kate looks at Bucky, then. “What are you waiting for, Arcade Fire to drop a new album?” she says, annoyed. “You heard boss-man.” She gestures at the door with her magazine, and starts reading again.

Bucky, a little red in the face, backs away, out of the front room, down the hallway, into what could only be described as the smallest office he’s ever been in. There’s space enough for a desk and a chair, and another chair opposite the desk, but very little room for anything else. The walls are covered in papers on papers, stuck hodgepodge into the drywall with pushpins. Clint’s desk is covered with more papers, and Clint is leaning on them, head in hand. He appears to be muttering to himself; negotiating with an invisible person.

At Bucky’s arrival, Clint looks up. There are reading glasses perched at the end of his nose; these, he removes. “Bucky! What are you doing here?” he asks, standing up.

“Was bored,” says Bucky, shrugging. He feels a little shy, for some reason. Should he have come like this, so unannounced? “Your receptionist is… something else,” says Bucky, for want of something to say.

“Kate?” says Clint, and chuckles. “Yeah. She’s a world-class shot, you should see her form. I’ve been trying to get her to shoot professionally for years now; working at a range is the closest she’ll come to making money off archery.”

Clint gestures for Bucky to sit. “Did you ever make it back to Natasha’s last night?” he asks. They both take their seats.

“No,” says Bucky, awkwardly.

“Oh!” says Clint. From Clint’s tone, Bucky can tell he’s wondering if Bucky got into some sort of trouble. Bucky looks at the papers on Clint’s desk. He wonders how much to tell Clint.

“Well, hope you were safe,” says Clint, clearly trying to affect a nonchalant tone.

“I was,” says Bucky.

“So what did you end up doing?” asks Clint, pushing some papers away, taking the time to look at Bucky carefully. “You get lucky or something?”

“You could say that,” says Bucky, automatically, and blushes.

Clint smiles. “Girl or guy?” says Clint.

“Uh,” says Bucky, clearing his throat, turning red.

“We don’t have to talk about it!” says Clint, quickly. “Your business, not mine.”

“Guy,” says Bucky.

“Guy!” exclaims Clint. “So not a bar skank?”

Bucky laughs, leans back in his chair. “God, what is it with you and Nat and your obsession with the girls who come into my bar?”

“No obsession, no obsession,” says Clint, shaking his head. “We just think they’re awful, that’s all,” he says, eyes twinkling.

Bucky smiles. He fiddles with a paperclip Clint left on the desk, concentrates on straightening it out.

“So, how’d you meet the lucky dude?” says Clint, taking a swig of coffee from his thermos. “Another miraculous friend from high school?” he says, and then winces, slightly—Bucky knows that Clint feels bad for bringing Steve up, no matter how obliquely.

Bucky grins, he can’t help himself. He looks down at his now-straight strand of metal. He goes about trying to re-form it into a paperclip.

“Oh shit, who was it?” asks Clint, leaning forward.

Bucky shakes his head, but can’t keep the broad grin from spreading across his features.

“Oh my god,” says Clint, breathlessly.

“You _cannot_ tell Natasha,” warns Bucky.

“Why not?” asks Clint. He looks taken aback.

“She’ll get too excited,” says Bucky.

“She’ll get exactly as excited as I am,” Clint protests.

“Exactly,” says Bucky, smiling. “You’re too excited. Tone it down a little.”

Clint laughs. “I’m glad you and Steve patched things up, Buck.”

“Me too,” says Bucky.

Clint smiles at Bucky. “Hey, want the grand tour?” he says, suddenly, looking excited.

“Aren’t you busy?” asks Bucky. “You seemed neck-deep in work when I came in.”

“Yeah, but I’m a small business owner,” says Clint. “The work never goes away, and therefore, can always wait.”

Clint takes Bucky through to the end of the hallway, which opens on a rather large gymnasium, well-lit from high windows in the back. There are defined lanes stretching along the gym, culminating in targets lined along the back wall; paper targets. Something in Bucky itches—a vague sense memory of the utter pleasure that is obtained by hitting a bullseye.

“Wanna try it out?” says Clint, gesturing to the line of bows in the rack.

“Never done it before,” says Bucky.

“Same general concept as firearms,” says Clint.

“Really?” asks Bucky, surprised.

“No, not really,” says Clint. “Very different.”

Clint shows Bucky how to nock an arrow, teaches him about the intricacies of the archer’s stance. He corrects Bucky’s foot position, and explains how technique differs between those archers who hunt and those who shoot competitively. It’s a lot of information, and Bucky thinks he’s probably absorbing only about twenty percent of all Clint is telling him. Still, he enjoys this—enjoys peering down at a target, enjoys the burn of his shoulder muscles as he draws the bow, enjoys the moment of heightened tension right before he releases the bowstring.

He doesn’t enjoy the results of his first time shooting a bow, however.  

“Hey, good form!” says Clint, enthusiastically.

“I didn’t even get anywhere on the target,” protests Bucky, a bit of sulk entering his voice.

“Who cares? That was your first time. You have good technique, there’s a lot to build on, here,” says Clint, and he looks so happy with Bucky’s performance, that Bucky can’t help but smile back.

They shoot for the next thirty minutes, and by the time they’re done, Bucky manages to hit the physical target; manages to come quite near the x-ring, which is apparently what the bullseye is called. His arm and shoulder—the organs not made of metal, of course—burn as he hands Clint the bow, so Clint can put it back on the rack.

“How’d you like it?” asked Clint.

“A lot,” admits Bucky. “More than I thought I would.” He wonders why he’s never thought about trying archery before. It seemed like a natural sport for an ex-sniper to gravitate towards. He especially wonders why he never thought about asking one of his best friends—who was an Olympic archer, for god’s sake—to teach him.

“Better than a long-range rifles?” asks Clint, grinning, as they leave the gymnasium

“Nah,” says Bucky, smiling. “Nothing’s better than those.” He had really, _really_ enjoyed being a sniper.

“What’s next, killer? Want to sit in on the class Kate’s going to teach?”

Bucky shakes his head, suddenly uncomfortable.

“Suit yourself,” says Clint, shrugging. “It would be on the house, of course.”

“Don’t know that I can get a better introduction to archery than what you just gave me, man,” says Bucky.

“That’s probably true,” says Clint. “What you just got, some people would pay a lot of money for.”

“Lucky me,” Bucky dead-pans.

He leaves, then, passing the group of newbies that have gathered in the front room, waiting for Kate to shepard them into the gym. Leaves the building, walks into the bright sunlight. He looks at his phone—it’s only 1 PM. Spending time with Clint wasn’t enough to eat up all his excess time.

He wonders if he should text Steve; he wonders if everything is okay at Steve’s place. He runs a hand through his hair, pulls it back into a bun, ties it off with the hair-tie he keeps around his wrist. After some thought, he pulls out his phone again and texts Steve.

> _Hey, everything okay over there?_

He slides his phone back into his back pocket, and decides to keep walking, for want of something better to do.

 

* * *

 

Steve’s phone pings, and he reaches over to pick it up. He reads Bucky’s message, and frowns as he tries to figure out how to respond. Finally, he types out

> _Everything’s fine! Patching things up with Sam. See you tonight after your shift?_

It’s not quite a lie, Steve reasons. He _is_ going to patch things up with Sam. But he can’t do that unless Sam comes home.

Steve puts his phone by his pillow, and goes back to his book. He’s reading this upcoming semester’s coursework—the first few weeks of it, at least. The syllabi for his chosen courses were finally published two days ago, and Steve always finds it beneficial to get started on things early.

The words, unfortunately, swim before him. He hasn’t been able to concentrate at all since he got back from his run—hasn’t  been able to do a single productive thing. Steve sighs, and puts his textbook away. He swings his feet down off the bed, stretches his arms over his head. Might as well do something else, he thinks to himself, frustrated.

There’s an old Lodge cast iron pan that needs to be de-rusted—one of those silly household chores that Steve has been putting off for months. He slips on a pair of rubber gloves, takes a bit of steel wool and begins scrubbing the pan in the sink, watching as the flakes of rust swirl down the drain. It is repetitive work, and it begins to calm him, begins to help him think.

Sam didn’t know the truth, and crucially, Sam couldn’t know the truth. Bucky deserved better than that. Steve wasn’t going to violate Bucky’s trust; wasn’t going to be yet another person who Bucky should have been able to rely on who failed him. But in the absence of the truth, Steve needed _some_ sort of plausible story; something to mollify Sam, something to cool his temper.

A traitorous voice within Steve speaks up, wondering why Steve needed to come up with any kind of story at all. After all, wasn’t it good enough that Steve vouched for Bucky? Why couldn’t Sam just trust Steve? Why was he being so _difficult_ about all of this?

Steve’s phone buzzes, and he sets the pan down, slides his glove off, fishes his phone out from his back pocket. It’s Bucky.

> _Sure, I’ll come over._

Warmth steals through Steve, and he smiles at the screen for a moment. He responds with a

> _:)_

He smiles again, at no one in particular, at the cast iron pan sitting in the sink, before putting his glove back on and going back to scrubbing the pan within an inch of its life.

He had to focus on the positives, here. So what if Sam wasn’t thrilled about Bucky being in Steve’s life again? He’d come around. The important thing was that Bucky was back.

Everything else could learn to fit around that reality.

 

* * *

 

Steve is fifty pages into _American Gods_ when the front door opens. Sam enters the apartment, holding a casserole dish. Steve looks up from his book to meet Sam’s eyes. Sam quickly looks away.

“Hey,” says Steve. He keeps his voice steady—he doesn’t want this to be weird.  

“Hi,” says Sam, closing the door behind him with his foot, both hands balancing the dish.

“What do you have there?” asks Steve, putting the book down, rising to meet Sam.

“Mac and cheese,” says Sam, shaking his head. “I told Mom that it was too hot these days to do any baking, but she wouldn’t listen to me.”

Steve smiled, taking the dish from Sam. Darlene could be pushy, when she wanted to be.

“Where’s Riley?” Steve asks, putting the dish on the countertop.

“With some of his buddies from his old battalion,” says Sam. “They do this thing every year, where they go to a bar and toast to those that didn’t make it.”

“Ah,” says Steve.

“Truth is, it’s a good thing he’s not here right now,” says Sam, a little sheepish.

“Why’s that?” asks Steve, pushing himself up on the counter, sitting next to the kitchen sink. Sam comes around, and leans on the kitchen island, opposite Steve.

“I thought that maybe we should talk in private,” says Sam.

“Probably a good idea,” says Steve

“I came on a bit strong, earlier,” admits Sam, looking at the floor,

“You did,” says Steve, simply. If it’s true, why pretend otherwise?

“I’m not happy Bucky’s back in your life,” says Sam. “I’m not going to deny it. I saw how badly he hurt you, I remember how upset you were, how angry you became, and I want to hold space for that, even if you don’t, anymore.”

“Okay,” says Steve, voice hardening.

“But,” says Sam, and then pauses. He takes a deep breath. “My role here isn’t that of caretaker. I’m not here to clean up your messes, emotional or otherwise.”

Steve can’t stay silent at that. “No one ever asked you to be!” he says, a little belligerent. “You’re not my—”

“Let me finish,” Sam interrupts, holding a finger up. Steve falls silent.

“I think I’ve been feeling responsible for you our whole lives, Steve,” says Sam. “You go rushing off into important romantic adventures, and I clean up after you when things fall apart.”

“I don’t really know what you mean, Sam,” says Steve, shaking his head. He wonders if he should point out the irony of the fact that between the two of them, Steve isn’t the one who has volunteered for two tours of duty in active war-zones.

“You don’t remember when we were kids, how many times I talked you out of doing something really, spectacularly stupid?” says Sam. “The time you wanted to petition the administration to get your middle school music teacher fired?”

“She deserved it!” protests Steve, raising his hand. He had overheard Mrs. Finnegan saying racist things about some of his classmates when he wandered into the teacher’s lounge by mistake.

Sam ignores Steve. “You don’t remember in college, how you tried to lock yourself into the Dean’s office, to protest Obama’s drone strikes?”

“Hey, the Secretary of State was giving the commencement address, it was pandering and disgusting, and I had to do something!” says Steve, hotly.

“Who wired your mother money to bail you out?” asked Sam.

“You did, but you didn’t have to,” says Steve. “I would have figured it out.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “And you really don’t remember any of 2014, do you?” says Sam, crossing his arms.“You really don’t remember how I convinced you not to buy a one-way ticket to London so you could persuade Peggy to marry you? How you were banking _everything_ on her coming back to New York with you?

Steve opens his mouth to say something, and nothing comes out. He blinks, in surprise. He supposes, if you really did think about it, that he had had a weak moment or two, after that particular breakup.

“Yeah, Peggy,” says Sam, darkly.

“Look, I loved her,” says Steve.

“I know you did. But it was a wild plan. You were going to drop out of school for her, and you didn’t know if she was going to say yes, or not.”

Steve remains silent.

“I am tired. And more than me being tired, Steve, I’m worried about you.”

“About _me_?” asks Steve, confused.

“Yeah, man.” Sam shakes his head, looks at the floor. “I’m worried about you. I’m worried that you’re going to throw yourself at something you want so hard that you’ll forget who you are, in the process.”

“That won’t happen,” says Steve, resolutely. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m a grown man, Sam.”

“Steve,” says Sam, slowly, clearly. “You’re a grown man who is great, on paper. But you don’t have the best decision-making track record, especially when your heart is involved.”

“But you just said that I’m my own man,” Steve fires back. “That my messes are mine to deal with and mine alone.”

Sam pauses. “You’re right,” he says after a moment. “Your messes are your own. I can’t stop you from making mistakes, anymore.”

Steve jumps down from the counter, leans back, crosses his arms. He frowns, and wonders why he doesn’t feel this as a victory. After a moment, he figures it out. “It hurts that you think my being with Bucky is a mistake,” he admits.

“It is,” says Sam, tired.

“Why?” asks Steve, trying to not feel slighted.

Sam hesitates.

“Look, I’m not asking you to control my life and my decisions for me,” says Steve, hurriedly. “I just… value your opinion, Sam. I want to know why you think being with Bucky is a bad thing for me.”

Sam is silent for a moment. “I know you’re going to say I’m beating a dead horse here, but he cheated on you. He wouldn’t open up to you, and then he pushed you further away by betraying your trust, by rejecting you. But the second he wants to get back together, you’re all smiles, like nothing ever happened.”

“Would your opinion change if Bucky didn’t cheat on me?” asks Steve, automatically.

Sam blinks. “He didn’t cheat on you?”

“Um, no,” says Steve, pinking a little. He doesn’t know how to explain this.

“Then what was all that about, a few weeks ago?” asked Sam, confused.

Steve pauses. “Look, I can’t really talk about it,” he says, quickly. “I haven’t been given permission to talk about it with anyone else.”

“Okay, okay,” says Sam, hands out. “We don’t have to talk about details. If you say he didn’t cheat on you, that’s good enough for me.”

Steve wants to kiss Sam. Not for the last time, he thanks a higher power that his best friend was such a trusting person. “Hey, you didn’t answer my question,” says Steve. “If Bucky didn’t cheat on me, is your opinion of him still the same? Are you still wary of me dating him?”

Sam is silent for a moment. “Honestly, Steve, it feels like Bucky has all the power, here,” he says, seriously. “Feels like he acts, and you react. He leads, you follow. It feels like he’s in charge. Feels like he is using his secrets against you, like he knows more about you than you know about him.”

Steve thinks back on the short time he was with Bucky, thinks about how silent Bucky had been. Then, it had just seemed mysterious. Now, with the benefit of hindsight, it seemed a little more than that—it seemed distant. Almost like Bucky was holding himself back, guarding himself to a ridiculous degree. Like Bucky was… shy.

And that shyness, that unwillingness to give anything up to his partner: did that translate into power held over Steve? Did that mean Bucky was intentionally wielding his secrets—whatever they were—against Steve, like a cudgel?

He decides to say what he’s thinking out loud. “Let’s assume that Bucky is pretty hard to understand, and that makes him hard to be with,” says Steve, thoughtfully. “I’m not sure he’s trying to intentionally hurt me. I don’t think he’s manipulating me.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’s not,” says Sam, smiling at Steve, sadly. “I know guys like Bucky. They show up every week to my group sessions. They show up, don’t say anything in session, and disappear after a few weeks. Every so often, you’ll hear that one of them killed himself, or re-enlisted, or got thrown in jail. Who knows, maybe they were drunk and disorderly. Maybe they hit their girlfriend,” says Sam.

“Bucky isn’t _dangerous_ , Sam,” says Steve, harshly. The thought of Bucky using violence against Steve, against anyone, was utterly ludicrous.

“Bucky is extremely dangerous,” says Sam, quietly. “I found out about his sniper record—he’s got one of the highest confirmed kill rates in army history.”

Steve groans. “So he’s a good soldier. Doesn’t make him a dangerous person, when he’s not in a war-zone. You of all people—”

“Me of all people know exactly what traumatized former soldiers are capable of, and I don’t want that for you,” says Sam, wide-eyed.  

“So you think Bucky’s going to… what, _beat_ me?” says Steve, wanting to laugh. Bucky, his gentle Bucky, hurt him? Besides, Steve was pretty sure he had at least fifty pounds on his boyfriend.

“No,” says Sam, voice deadly serious. “I don’t think that’s the form his violence is going to take. I think he’s going to ice you out emotionally, and keep you wanting more. And, unless he works on opening up, I don’t see this going anywhere great.”

Steve sighs, and pushes off the counter. He peels the corner of the foil that covers Darlene’s mac n’ cheese; looks at the frozen dish. “Well, at least you’re honest,” he says, glumly.

Sam laughs, ruefully. “Yeah, I am.”

“He’s coming over tonight,” says Steve. “You’re probably going to see him tomorrow morning. Play nice?”

“I’m always nice,” says Sam, smiling. “You don’t need to worry about that, Steve. Look, if this is what you want, I’ll support you.”

“Really?” asks Steve, weakly. “After all that, you’ll support me?”

“Yeah, man,” says Sam. “I want you two to make it work. I’m nervous about this, but I want you to find your happiness. And I want him to find his happiness, too. Whatever form that takes.”

“Thank you, Sam,” says Steve, relieved.

“Especially now that I find out he didn’t actually cheat on you, goddamn!” says Sam, and Steve has to laugh.

 

* * *

 

Bucky tip-toes into Steve’s room the way he did the night before, slides into bed alongside Steve. He’s pretty exhausted from his shift, but he is wide awake now; is apprehensive as a newly awake Steve turns to meet Bucky’s gaze.

“Hey,” Steve mutters, a smile on his face.

“Hi,” says Bucky, and on impulse, reaches out, and touches Steve’s nose, with his metal hand.

Steve bats Bucky’s hand away, grinning.

“You’re silly,” he says, sleepily.

“I am?” asks Bucky.

“You know you are,” says Steve, eyes closing as he struggles to remain awake.

“That’s not what most people say about me,” says Bucky, grinning.

“Big, scary Bucky,” says Steve, sighing. “Can’t fool me.” Steve scooches forward, moves into Bucky’s space so that his forehead touches Bucky’s. Their breath mingles.

Bucky closes the remaining distance between them and kisses Steve on the mouth. It’s a chaste kiss. He pulls back, a little awkwardly, as if to check that what he just did was okay. Steve smiles, contentedly, eyes already closed.

They drift off to sleep, together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't get mad at Sam, you guys. He's right, if we're being completely objectively honest. Wouldn't you be a little worried if your best friend started dating someone like Bucky?


	16. Lazy Sunday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky enjoy a much-needed Sunday at the park.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year's! Here, have a present. If your teeth rot and fall out from all the sweetness in this chapter, it's not my fault. Here lies pornography. And oh yeah, introducing Tony Stark, or at least The Idea of Tony Stark. 
> 
> I'm on a tear, here. I've decided to get this story done, goddammit. So Expect More in the next few weeks.

“Want another pancake?” says Steve.

Bucky isn’t really hungry. He’s too nervous to be hungry. He nods anyway. Steve neatly places a perfectly round pancake onto Bucky’s plate. 

“This is excellent room service, Steve,” says Sam, cutting into his remaining stack. 

Bucky smiles awkwardly, says nothing. This is weird. Steve had assured him that Sam wasn’t mad, that they had patched things up, that Sam was going to treat Bucky with respect, but Bucky hadn’t really believed him. The fact that Sam was, in fact, doing all these things, was mildly astounding, to Bucky.

Sam had even turned to Bucky when Steve was out of earshot, and apologized to him for trying to talk him into seeing a shrink, the day… the day Rumlow happened. Bucky had stammered out something like “it’s fine, don’t worry about it,” and Sam had smiled, continued eating his breakfast, like nothing at all had happened. 

“So what’s the plan for today?” asks Sam, mouth full of pancake.

“Oh, I don’t know,” says Steve. “Was going to talk it over with Bucky after breakfast.” He flips a pancake and it lands expertly in the pan—a perfect somersault.  

“We could go to Central Park,” says Bucky, and wonders, immediately, where that came from. He doesn’t think he’s left Brooklyn in a year. 

“You wanna go into Manhattan? On a weekend?” says Steve, turning to Bucky and raising his eyebrows. “Yeah, well, why not. It’s a nice day.”

“You don’t want to go?” asks Bucky, worried that he suggested the wrong thing.

“Nah, I do,” says Steve. “In fact, I really do. Wanna go swimming?”

“Not really,” says Bucky, gesturing at his prosthetic. “The arm, it… uh… attracts a lot of attention when my shirt is off.”

“Good point,” says Steve.

Riley comes out of Sam’s bedroom then, yawning and stretching. He pads over to Sam, kisses him on the cheek. “Hi babe,” says Riley to Sam. He then extends the greetings to Steve and Bucky, who greet him in turn.

“Hi yourself,” says Sam, looking warm. “You came home late last night.”

“Yeah, you know how it is,” says Riley, resting his hands on Sam’s shoulders, his chin on Sam’s head. “One thing turned into another. The boys wanted to hang out.”

Sam smiles up at Riley then, and Riley grins down at Sam, and there is deep contentment on each face, and Bucky quickly looks at the wall behind them. He’d been staring. 

“We could go to the Historical Society,” says Steve, finally moving to the kitchen island with a stack of pancakes of his own. “There’s an exhibit about radical politics at the turn of the century that looks awesome.” 

Bucky grins. “You dork,” he says, fondly. Steve was such an  _ academic _ . 

Steve grins back. “Dude, you’ll love it. I remember a certain someone who used to be obsessed with Eugene Debs.”

Oh yeah. He had. If he thinks hard, Bucky can remember how much he had loved the socialist leader, how he had been enraptured by his passion. He can remember staying up, up far past his usual bedtime, reading those fiery speeches, over and over again. 

“You wrote your college essay on him,” says Steve, mildly. He cuts into his pancakes. 

“You remember that?” says Bucky, blinking. 

“You kidding?” says Steve, chuckling. “I remember when you let me read it.”

Bucky doesn’t remember this, at all. “Wait, really?” he says, grinning. “I let you read it?”

“Yeah, says Steve, looking at Bucky, eyes soft. “I was hanging out with you after a GSA meeting, I think I had volunteered to do some extra clean-up, or something. Just an excuse to hang around you, really. And you were helping too, but you kept returning to your notebook, muttering over something.”

“My essay was in that notebook?” asks Bucky. 

Steve nods. “I finally gathered up the courage to ask what you were doing, and I remember the  _ look  _ you gave me,” he says, and pauses then, going somewhere far away. “Your hair was all messed up. You had this wild expression in your eyes, like you were in the middle of this absolute fervor. And I remember you staring at me, and deciding to hand over the notebook. You did it without a word.”

“What did I write?” asks Bucky.

“You don’t remember?” asks Steve. 

Bucky shakes his head. He doesn’t even remember what colleges he applied to. 

“It was about how Debs spent ten years in jail for a speech he gave about how America shouldn’t join World War I,” says Steve. “You talked about how you’d do the same, how you’d sacrifice your freedom it if could mean stopping an unjust war.”

Bucky barks out a laugh. “Wish I had taken my own advice,” he says, darkly. He looks at his metal palm, moves steel fingers. The kitchen lights glint off the metal. “Pacifist Bucky Barnes,” he says, bitterly, heart beating fast. 

He glances at Steve, who is looking at Bucky very carefully. Bucky is grateful when Steve doesn’t ask any more questions. 

“That’s a Stark prosthetic, right?” asks Riley, suddenly. 

“Yeah,” says Bucky. Cybernetic prosthetics were an absolute rarity when he got his a few years ago, but they were becoming more and more common now. 

“Those things are miracles,” says Riley.

“They really are,” says Steve, smiling gently, reaching over and entwining his fingers with Bucky’s metal ones. 

“How’d you get one, if you don’t mind me asking?” said Riley. “The waiting list is years long.”

“I’ve known Tony Stark for a long time,” says Bucky, gruffly. “This is actually the prototype,” he says, gesturing at the arm. He still feels guilty about it; still feels guilty that he got so lucky. He only had to suffer the indignity of being one-armed for a month—he knows vets who have had to live decades of disability. And he hadn’t even had to bill the VA for any of it. 

“You know Tony Stark?” says Riley, eyes wide. 

“Yeah,” says Bucky. He glances at Steve, who has stopped eating. There’s blatant curiosity written on his face. “It’s a long story,” says Bucky, almost apologetically. It is. His relationship with Tony is… strange. Too much to explain over breakfast. 

“Huh,” says Riley. “You know, I’ve got a guy in my platoon who needs a prosthetic real bad; he’s three years away from getting a Stark.” The question is implied.  _ Can you pull any strings? _

“I can talk to Tony,” says Bucky. “He likes me. I’ll ask him if he needs another guinea pig. I’m due for a tune-up in a few days anyway.” The appointments had been monthly in the beginning, but Bucky had insisted they knock them down to every six months when it became clear Tony was really meeting with him so often simply in order to admire his handiwork. (And when Bucky realized that Tony was using their monthly meetings as a pretext to check up on him.)

“If I could give Trip any good news before I go back to Afghanistan, that would be fucking amazing,” says Riley, and Sam stiffens besides him. 

“Babe, I thought we weren’t going to bring that up,” says Sam, quietly.

“Sorry, Sammy,” says Riley, squeezing Sam’s elbow apologetically. 

Bucky feels a pang of sympathy for Sam. He knows that Riley’s back on duty in three days; Steve told him as much this morning. It can’t be easy to see your partner go off to war. It can’t be easy to see them to fling themselves into the most dangerous place on earth. He had been lucky to have no one waiting for him at home when he had enlisted. 

“You guys done?” says Steve, standing up. Everyone nods, and Steve collects plates, deposits them in the sink. Bucky decides to help, for want of something to do with his hands. He grabs a dish-towel and starts to dry the plates that Steve is washing. He is gratified with a small smile from Steve. 

It’s nice, doing dishes alongside Steve. Bucky finds he’s rather disappointed when they run out of dishes to clean.

 

* * *

It’s a devastatingly beautiful day, the kind of bright summer day you fantasize about in the dead of winter, and Central Park is  _ packed _ . Families are strewn across the lawns, parents sunbathing while their kids roughhouse nearby. There are bikers, rollerbladers, runners whizzing past Steve and Bucky, who are walking companionably along the footpath. They have matching slushies, and Bucky is sipping from his. It’s probably tuning his tongue blue, realizes Steve, and wonders when he’ll be allowed to steal a moment away to kiss his boyfriend.

Two teenage girls grin and mutter to themselves as they pass Steve and Bucky; Steve grits his teeth, still unused to the level of female attention he gets, nearly ten years after growing into this body. But they’re not pointing and giggling at Steve; it’s Bucky they’re ogling. 

Steve looks over at Bucky and grins to himself. He takes Bucky’s hand, squeezes. Bucky turns to Steve, his expression inscrutable behind those reflective aviator sunglasses. Then he smiles, shyly.

“What is it?” he asks.

“Nothing,” says Steve. “You’re just really fucking hot, that’s all.”

Color rises high on Bucky’s cheeks, and he says nothing. Then: “you flatterer.”

“I still can’t believe I managed to get with you,” says Steve, grinning. “Point, Rogers.”

“Stop, Steve,” says Bucky, suddenly. He looks uncomfortable. 

“What’s wrong?” asks Steve, looking worried.

Bucky looks at Steve intently, for a moment. “You’re putting me on a pedestal,” says Bucky, finally, quietly. “It’s easy to fall of off those.”

The words hit Steve, and he stops walking, drops Bucky’s hand. Bucky stops and looks at Steve, head cocked. He reaches out; tries and fails to recapture Steve’s hand.

“You wanna talk about it? What happened last time?” says Steve, after a moment. 

Bucky frowns. “What do you mean?” he asks. They start walking again, Steve’s hands shoved deep in his pockets.

“When we broke up. You think I was… idolizing you, a little? Seeing the version of you I wanted to see, and not paying attention to who you are now?”

Bucky chews his lip, and Steve knows what he’s thinking, and instantly regrets his choice of words. He remembers what Bucky threw at him, the night they broke up. 

_ You met me ten years ago when I was a different person; you formed an obsession. _

_ You don’t fucking know me, you little twerp. _

“Hey, all that shit you said to me when we broke up? I’m not saying you said it well, but maybe you had a point,” says Steve, gently. “I don’t really know much about you, Bucky.” He steers them to a park bench, and sits, holding out a hand to Bucky. 

Bucky remains standing. He slides his aviators off. “Well, what would you like to know?” he asks, voice tense.

Steve sighs, at that. Runs his hand through his hair. What  _ doesn’t  _ he want to know about Bucky? He wants to know why Bucky works at a seedy bar, instead of being enrolled in freaking law school or something equally prestigious; something that lives up to the talents he  _ knows  _ Bucky has. He wants to know why Bucky volunteered for the military, given everything he knows about how Bucky feels about war and warfare. He wants to know… he wants to know why Bucky is depressed. Because he is, isn’t he? His boyfriend has depression. He wants to know when it started, wants to know how he can help him heal. But then he looks at Bucky, and all the questions he wants to ask become stuck in his throat. Because Bucky looks so timid, so scared right now. He looks like he’s scared everything’s going to fall apart if Steve says the wrong thing. 

“Baby, I want to know what you want to tell me,” says Steve, finally. “I don’t want to push. But if this is going to work between us, I need to know something. You’re going to have to start letting me in, or at least start working towards being able to.”

“I know,” says Bucky, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I know.”

There’s a moment where no one says anything; where no one breathes. The sounds of the park fall away while Bucky thinks. Finally, he speaks. 

“I met Tony Stark in college, in my second year,” says Bucky. He settles next to Steve on the park bench, not looking at him. He sighs. “I was writing a paper, for a moral philosophy class, on… on conscientious objectors. We had a pretty forward-thinking professor,” says Bucky, and he’s looking straight ahead, eyes distant. “He didn’t just want us to read the usual Kant and Aristotle, he wanted us to really grapple with these issues of morality, of right and wrong.” 

Bucky quiets, for a few moments. “I wanted to write about someone who had rejected the war machine; I was still obsessed with the peace movement,” he says, finally. 

“Hence, Tony Stark,” says Steve, the pieces coming together. The ultra-libertarian war profiteer who had made a distinct shift away from weapons manufacturing and had, in the last ten years, completely, publicly changed his political stance—he was a perfect subject for a young Bucky to study. 

“Yeah. I went really above and beyond for that paper,” says Bucky. “I hunted him down. All my emails to Stark Industries—they seemed to disappear into the void, no one actually ever got back to me.”

“So how did you get in touch with him, ultimately?” asks Steve. 

“Thanksgiving break,” says Bucky. “Tony was due for some press event outside Rockefeller Center. I put on my best clothes and ambushed him after the press conference. His security was  _ not  _ happy with me,” says Bucky, chuckling. 

“But it worked?” asks Steve. 

“It worked,” says Bucky, smiling at Steve. “I asked for a sit-down interview with him, and was so insistent, he gave it to me. I talked to him for an hour about his experiences, about why he changed his mind about weapons manufacturing.”

“What did he say?” asks Steve, curious. No one knew what prompted Stark’s political shift—there was rampant speculation, when the news was still fresh in the press, that someone was blackmailing him.  

Bucky hesitates. “I… can’t tell you, actually,” says Bucky, apologetically. “What Tony told me; it was confidential. I didn’t even put it in the paper I wrote for my professor.”

“But he told you? He didn’t know you at all, and he told you his biggest secret?” asks Steve, confused. 

“Yeah,” says Bucky. He shakes his head. “Tony Stark is a strange man. I don’t understand him either, not really.”

“So then what happened?” asks Steve. “Was that it?”

“Nah,” says Bucky, stretching his arms out behind him. Sunlight reflects off his arm, which is mostly visible in Bucky’s short-sleeved tee. “Tony sort of took me under his wing. He offered me a pretty cushy internship when summer rolled around.”

“What?” says Steve, shocked. 

“Yeah. I mean, I was a humanities student, I didn’t know the first thing about lab-work, so I didn’t help out with any of his engineering projects, but Pepper Stark found a use for me. She put me to work in Stark Industries’ PR department. I learned how to write a hell of a press release,” says Bucky. 

“So then after you came home from Afghanistan, he offered you the prosthetic?” asks Steve. 

“Pretty much. Said he’s been working on the prototype for a year; wanted to know if I wanted to be his test case,” says Bucky, shrugging. “And, I guess, that’s the story of how I know Tony Stark,” he says, looking at Steve, smiling slightly. 

Something in Steve’s chest loosens. There’s so much more Steve wants to ask; so much more he wants to know about the story Bucky just told him. But he’s happy to know this much, at least. “Thank you for telling it to me,” says Steve. 

Bucky smiles, slides his sunglasses back on. They sit there for a while, in a companionable silence.

 

* * *

They slip into Steve’s apartment that night, long after Sam and Riley have gone to sleep. Bucky feels loose and happy; they had hung around the park all day, feeding crumbled up croissants to the ducks, sunbathing on the lawn, eating soft-serve ice cream. When it started to get dark, they had parked themselves in one of those overpriced patios on Central Park West; had ordered a pitcher of beer and had set about drinking it very slowly, the last drops of it flat and tasteless. 

Steve kisses Bucky in the dark of his bedroom, palms Bucky’s face carefully, like he’s touching something precious. Heart thudding in his chest, Bucky stands there, unsure what to do with his hands. This is the most intimate they’ve been since the break-up. 

“You okay?” whispers Steve. 

“I don’t know,” admits Bucky. 

“We don’t have to,” says Steve. “You’ve been through a lot.”

Bucky groans. “I really, really want to,” he says, and he’s not lying. He does want to. But it doesn’t stop him from feeling nervous, and despite himself, guilty. Last time he did this… it wasn’t with Steve. He’s glad that in the moonlight streaming in through the windows, it’s not possible for Steve to make out the sudden flush his cheeks have taken on. 

Steve kisses Bucky, smiles against Bucky’s lips. “Good,” he says, a hint of fire lacing his words. “I want you to want this,” he says, tracing along Bucky’s temple, tucking an errant strand of hair behind Bucky’s ear. 

“Want what, Rogers?” asks Bucky, matching fire for fire, and it’s meant as a challenge. 

Steve kisses Bucky deeply then, his arms drifting down, down past his waist, circling his ass. He pulls on Bucky, encouraging Bucky to jump up on Steve, to wrap his legs around Steve’s waist, which he does. Steve holds Bucky, kisses Bucky as he walks them to his bed, and lays Bucky down on the mattress. With one quick motion, Steve shucks Bucky’s shirt off, and then he’s fingering at Bucky’s waist, clearly indicating Bucky should divest himself of his jeans as well. Bucky, not wanting to be the only person without their clothes on, tugs at Steve’s shirt, and Steve obliges him, revealing the breadth of those shoulders, that trim waist, his well-muscled arms. It’s all Bucky can do; he clutches Steve everywhere, like a man drowning. 

“I missed you, baby,” says Steve, roughly. He’s helping Bucky take his jeans off, he’s palming Bucky’s rapidly hardening length. 

“I missed you too,” whispers Bucky, and he means it. It hits him then—how close he was to losing this forever. 

Steve kisses down Bucky’s chest and mouths at Bucky’s cock through his underwear; he pulls down Bucky’s briefs and in one swift motion, takes Bucky into his mouth, right down to the hilt. 

Bucky throws his head back and groans, overwhelmed with how good it feels—the pressure, the suction—and cradles the back of Steve’s head as Steve starts to bob his head. 

“Oh my god,” whines Bucky, and Steve hums with pleasure. Eventually, Steve pulls off Bucky, and looks up at him with lust-addled eyes. 

“How do you want it, babe?” he asks, voice sex-rough. 

“You should fuck me,” says Bucky, hips still thrusting, even in the absence of any friction. He remembers, last time, how good Steve felt inside of him—he wants that again.  

“Hell yeah,” says Steve, eyes dark. He moves up Bucky’s body, kisses him hard. Bucky can feel Steve’s own hardness through his jeans, and for a wild moment, Bucky wonders if he can get away with Steve keeping his jeans on, with fucking him with just his zipper undone. Those thoughts are quickly discarded as Steve takes his jeans off, as thick thighs and strong calves are revealed. Bucky groans as he mindlessly tries to touch Steve’s legs, wanting to get his hands on everywhere he sees Steve’s skin. 

Once fully divested of his clothes, Steve takes a moment to look at Bucky, really  _ look  _ at him. In the past, Steve’s all-encompassing gaze might have made Bucky uncomfortable; now it just makes him feel whole. 

Steve kisses down the flat planes of Bucky’s stomach, kisses down past his hips, past his cock. Bucky gasps as Steve lays an experimental swipe of his tongue at Bucky’s entrance; claws at the sheets as he is come undone by Steve’s mouth, as he is kissed open. A finger is added, and another, and soon, Bucky is loose and sloppy and keening for it, begging Steve in a low string of nonsense words to “hurry up, put it in, fuck me, please, fuck me.”

Steve produces a condom from somewhere; rips it open and slides it on his cock, kissing, mouthing at Bucky’s neck. “We forgot lube,” says Steve, breathless into the skin below Bucky’s jaw. 

“It’s fine, I can take you,” says Bucky, and there’s a low whine in his voice, there is pressure building up between his ears. 

Steve groans at that; grips Bucky by the hips, lines up so that his cockhead is teasing at Bucky’s opening. “You really want to?” he asks roughly, muscles shaking with the effort of holding himself back. 

Buky smiles—bares his teeth in a feral grin—and pushes himself down, chasing Steve’s cock. 

Steve grips Bucky by the arms, stills his movement. He pulls back. “Bucky,” he says, warningly. 

“What?” says Bucky, cocking an eyebrow. “Fuck me hard, Steve.”

“No,” says Steve, shaking his head, before pulling off Bucky entirely. Bucky props himself up on his forearms, straining to see Steve’s retreating form in the lowly lit room. He contemplates panicking, but not for long—Steve is returning, with a bottle in his hand. “I don’t want this to hurt you,” says Steve, climbing back into bed, covering Bucky’s body with the wide expanse of his. 

“It wouldn’t have hurt that much,” grumbles Bucky, but any further complaints he might have registered fall by the wayside as Steve spreads Bucky wide with (properly) lubed fingers, as Steve prepares Bucky so carefully and sweetly that Bucky wants to cry. 

“Now will you fuck me?” asks Bucky, exasperated, using mock frustration to stave off a slightly more embarrassing reaction to being handled like he’s something precious, something breakable and valuable and real.

Steve laughs; it bubbles out of him. “Yeah, baby,” says Steve, fondly. “I’ll fuck you, now.” And he does; sliding into Bucky with a sigh. Steve traces circles on Bucky’s bare chest as he lets Bucky get used to the feeling of being full; of Steve being inside of him—and then he starts to move, slowly, pumping in and out of Bucky. 

The drag of skin on skin is delicious, and Bucky throws his head back, exposes his throat so Steve can suckle and bite and worry the skin he finds there. 

“Fuck, Steve,” is all Bucky manages to say. 

“Love you, I love you,” Steve murmurs into Bucky’s collarbone. 

“ _ Stevie _ ,” says Bucky, and hopes Steve knows what that means despite the words that he cannot bring himself to say just yet. 

Steve begins to move a little faster, and Bucky doesn’t know if it’s in response to the pet name or if Steve just felt like it was time, but Bucky isn’t complaining; how could he? Not when Steve is groaning above him, not when Bucky is given an excuse to draw his legs up around Steve, changing the angle slightly so that Steve curses and fucks Bucky harder. 

The slap of skin on skin fills the room, punctuated with grunts (Steve) and gasps (Bucky). Slowly, Bucky learns the rhythm Steve has set, and matches his own movements to it; pushes back on Steve, matching thrust for thrust. Sweat beads on Bucky’s forehead, his hair is beginning to stick to his face—with an exasperated huff, Bucky swipes at his face with his metal hand. This way he can see Steve properly; can see Steve grin and duck in for a kiss. 

Steve’s thrusts grow fast and unsteady. “Bucky, I’m close,” he pants. 

“Come, Stevie,” says Bucky, and Steve stills and sighs his pleasure into Bucky’s ear. “Good, thank you, you were so good for me, honey,” Bucky murmurs, and it might seem a little mindless, the way he babbles, but he means every word of the praise that spills from his lips. 

Steve pulls out of Bucky very carefully and collapses on his stomach. He smiles at Bucky, eyes soft and full of love. It’s a brief respite; Steve pushes himself up, strips his condom off and discards it on the floor, to be dealt with later. He pushes at Bucky’s shoulder until Bucky turns to his side. He drapes himself along Bucky’s back, mouthing at Bucky’s shoulder, his free hand drifting down to cradle Bucky’s cock. 

“You don’t have to,” says Bucky, then. 

“You don’t want to come?” asks Steve, chin resting on Bucky’s shoulder. 

“Nah,” says Bucky. For some reason, chasing an orgasm right now—it’s not the most important thing in the world. (Besides, anything that might distract from the sweetness of what just happened wouldn’t be worth it.)

“You okay?” asks Steve, and Bucky hears a hint of worry, a bit of uncharacteristic insecurity in Steve’s voice. 

“More than okay,” says Bucky, contentedly. He turns around and kisses Steve. “That was perfect, Stevie. You were perfect.”

“If you say so,” grumbles Steve, but he smiles at Bucky. 

They drift off to sleep like that, wrapped in each others’ arms. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, I wrote some not-too-spoilery meta about Bucky and Steve's childhoods and life trajectories in this fic, [here](http://bipolarbuckyy.tumblr.com/post/168958301745/this-is-a-post-about-scar-tissue). Come join me on tumblr! And don't forget to comment! And my askbox is always open!


	17. Tony Fucking Stark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky has conversations with supportive friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit of a coda to Chapter 16. Enjoy!

“Hey, can you make the salad?” Natasha calls from the kitchen.

“Sure,” says Bucky, and comes up to the counter; begins tearing the romaine lettuce, ripping the leaves into good-sized pieces and putting them into the salad spinner. Despite himself, Bucky yawns. It’s late, around six in the evening, but Bucky had woken up in the early afternoon. It’s mid-day for him, though the day is beginning to wind down for everyone else.

He doesn’t have an excuse for his sloth, other than it’s his day off, and he has nowhere to be. He had woken up to an empty apartment; Steve and Sam had left for work, Riley was somewhere else, and Bucky was alone. He had washed up quickly, and then decided to head to Natasha’s apartment, to watch Netflix on her couch. He hadn’t bet on falling back asleep on said couch; hadn’t bet on Natasha waking him up and making him help prepare dinner. He had hoped to be out of the house by the time she got home.

“So, how’s Steve?” asks Natasha, and Bucky feels a jolt of surprise. He stops preparing the lettuce; looks at her.

“He’s fine,” says Bucky, after a moment. “How did you know?”

“I’m not an idiot, радость,” she says, casting him a sidelong glance. “I _am_ a detective, after all.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” says Bucky. He runs the salad spinner under the faucet; washing the leaves.

“Yeah, what’s up with that?” asks Natasha, mildly. “You avoiding me, Bucky?”

“No,” says Bucky, and he knows he’s lying, and feels terrible for doing so.

Nat shrugs. “It’s okay, if you are, you know,” she says.

“It’s not,” says Bucky, a little morosely. “You’ve done so fucking much for me, Nat. I owe you everything.”

“You’re my brother,” says Natasha, simply. “We fought together. I’d move mountains for you, kid.”

“Which is why it would be bullshit to treat you badly,” says Bucky, firmly.

“Come on, Bucky,” says Natasha, a pained smile on her face. “Wanting your personal space to process what you’re going through doesn’t mean you’re treating me badly. You’re allowed to decide these things, you know. Besides, when you’re with me, I tend to make you talk about things.”

Bucky blinks in surprise. Maybe that’s why he’s been ducking out of Natasha’s apartment in the evenings, putting in extra hours at the bar, spending so much time with Steve, now that he has him back. It’s true that each recent conversation with Natasha has been an emotional marathon, exhausting Bucky afterwards.

“Want me to back off, a little?” asks Natasha. She shreds the chicken methodically. “I can do buddy-buddy, you know. What do you need?”

 _Yes, back off_ , Bucky wants to say, but the answer dies in his throat when he looks at Natasha. “That might be what I want,” says Bucky, slowly. “But it’s not what I need.”

Natasha throws Bucky a sharp glance. “Explain,” she orders.

“I need to be pushed,” says Bucky. “I… need to get better at communication. I’m not very good at it,” he admits. “But I’d like to get better.”

There’s a pause. “That’s the healthiest thing you’ve said since we got back from Afghanistan, Bucky,” says Natasha. There’s quiet pride in her voice.

Bucky rolls his eyes sheepishly, but a part of him feels warm at Natasha’s praise.

They work in companionable silence for a while; Bucky pulling out the ingredients for a chicken salad according to the recipe displayed on Natasha’s iPad, Natasha getting started on the dishes.

“Nat, there’s something else I’ve been meaning to talk with you about,” says Bucky, when he’s finally worked up the nerve.

“What is it, радость?” says Natasha,

“I’m worried I’ve overstayed my welcome, a little,” he says.

“You haven’t, obviously,” says Natasha, immediately. “I will almost certainly tell you when you have.”

“I’m paying rent on an apartment; I should use it,” says Bucky, stubbornly. By virtue of living with Natasha and eating home-cooked meals so often, Bucky has managed to save enough money, this month, to pay Rumlow what he owes and then some.

Nat chews her lip; thinks. “I’ve been thinking for a while you should give up that place, just move in with me for good,” she says, finally.

Bucky gapes. “Natasha, I need my independence,” he says, after a moment.

“Do you?” says Natasha, tilting her head. “Look what you do with it when you have it,” she says, quietly.

Bucky feels a hot swoop of indignant anger, and opens his mouth to respond.

“Besides, Bucky, I’m not exactly your jailor,” she says, before he can say anything. “You’re not under house-arrest. Not anymore, at least.”

“I’m a grown-ass man, Nat,” says Bucky, despairingly.

“And even grown-ass men need someone to keep an eye on them, every so often,” says Natasha firmly.

Bucky rolls his eyes, but says nothing. He wonders if he should put up more of a fight. Something about continuing to stay with Nat and Clint—it makes him feel like his skin is too tight, like there’s this constant, unbearable tension roiling his guts. His apartment isn’t pleasant, not by a long shot—but he can be alone there.  

“Sometimes,” says Natasha, and she’s being very deliberate right now, very thoughtful, “we resist most the things that are best for us. We push them away, because they’re hard. But that hardness, that uncomfortableness… it’s a good sort of uncomfortable.”

Bucky says nothing. He continues to measure out mayonnaise, heart beating fast.

“Knowing the difference between a good limit to push against and a hard boundary, something that you shouldn’t push under any circumstances, that’s important,” continues Natasha, and there’s a suggestion, here, that Nat knows what she’s talking about; that the knowledge she’s imparting has been gleaned from hard experience.

“You’re a fighter, Bucky,” she says, turning towards him. “You will beat this thing, this depression. I know you will. But you have to choose things that are good for you, at every step of the way. You have to keep choosing good things, over and over again. And I think staying here—it has been good for you.”

“I’ll think about it,” says Bucky, gruffly. His eyes feel hot and prickly at the corners, and Bucky swipes at his face, breathing unevenly. Natasha pretends to not notice, something Bucky will be eternally grateful for.

 

* * *

 

Bucky sits on the plastic chair, eschewing the exam room’s table, with it’s sterile paper lining. He frowns at it, as if it is responsible for dragging him here. He looks at the magazines; contemplates uncrossing his arms to pick up a copy of _Hot Rod_. (Trust the exam rooms at Stark Tower to not have any of the usual doctors’ offices magazines.)

The door opens, and Tony Stark walks in, wearing a white coat, examining a clipboard. He doesn’t look at Bucky, engrossed in Bucky’s updated medical history, of which absolutely nothing has changed since the last time he was here.

“Since when are you a doctor?” asks Bucky, raising an eyebrow at Tony’s getup.

“Since I stole Banner’s coat this morning,” says Tony, continuing to read the clipboard. When he finally looks at Bucky, he frowns. “You ever going to get a haircut, kid?” asks Tony.

“No,” says Bucky, glowering, arms still crossed. They seem to have this conversation every time.

“Suit yourself,” says Tony. “Let’s take a look at you,” he said, eyes on Bucky’s arm. He makes Bucky go through a handful of motions; makes him pick up various small objects, makes him make a fist, makes him stretch his arm behind his back as far as it can go.

“God, I love this thing,” Tony mutters, as he opens up a panel on Bucky’s bicep and fiddles with a screwdriver.

“Is it your baby?” asks Bucky, wanting to laugh.

“Yes,” says Tony, unironically. “My very first prosthetic. I will love you ‘til the day you fall off,” he says to the arm, and plants a very wet kiss on Bucky’s elbow.

“Tony, you weirdo,” says Bucky, jerking away.

“Pride in one’s work,” says Tony, imperiously. He leans back on the examination table, and looks at Bucky. “It’s a good thing, Barnes. You used to have it, when you worked here.”

Bucky groans, crosses his arms again. “I wrote a couple press releases and followed you around to your public events, Tony,” says Bucky. “I didn’t do anything important.”

“Bullshit, you didn’t do anything important,” says Tony, and he sounds deadly serious, for the first time since this examination started. “You formed connections in an industry; you learned the basics of a trade.”

“What, public relations?” says Bucky, incredulously.

“A trade,” repeats Tony, firmly. “And more than that. You helped me. You pushed me to endorse denuclearization. You helped me advocate for green energy. You accompanied me to Capitol Hill, for Christ’s sake. You told me when I was fucking up, which I tend to do often, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but finds he doesn’t quite know what to say. He never knows what to say, after Tony praises him.

“You know you have a job anytime you want one, right?” says Tony, and he is being _gentle_ with Bucky, and _that_ , Bucky absolutely cannot stomach.

“Tony, you don’t want a washed-up soldier who couldn’t even graduate from a SUNY college in charge of anything in your life,” says Bucky, despairingly. His heart is beating oddly fast.

“Well, sue me for trying to make your life better,” says Tony, and he’s back to his usual, flippant self. “Hey, you ever call that therapist I told you call?”

Bucky groans, sinking down into his chair, his head in his hands. “Why does everyone want me to see a fucking therapist?” he asks, through his fingers. Sam, Tony. Of course Natasha never shut up about how he needed mental health treatment. He was sick of it.

“Because, darling, you’re a goddamn mess,” says Tony, sweetly.

“No, really, why?” asks Bucky, angrily. “Things are looking up for me,” he insists. “I’m in a good relationship, I have enough money to pay my rent. I don’t fucking flinch when fireworks go off. I really am fine.”

But Tony hasn’t heard him fully; he’s looking at Bucky with a soft expression. “Relationship?”

Bucky realizes what he let slip, and stiffens. He’s not sure why he’s so uncomfortable with letting people know about Steve. “Uh, yeah,” he says.

“Who’s the lucky guy?” asks Tony.

“No one,” says Bucky, firmly.

“Fine, don’t tell me,” says Tony, shrugging. “But I am happy for you, kid,” he says.

“Thanks,” Bucky mutters, cheeks reddening. “Just,” he says, getting them back on track of the conversation that was so unnecessarily derailed, “let me handle my own shit, okay?”

Tony looks like he wants to contest that, for a moment; he looks like he wants to say something like “look how well you’re handling said shit on your own,” or “how’s that awful bar of yours treating you?” Miraculously he says none of these things; just pushes off the table, sighing, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

“Will you promise to call me if things ever get really bad, Bucky?” asks Tony, finally.

Bucky looks at Tony, and nods, silently.

 

* * *

 

“Another Bud, please,” says Leroy, putting his empty pint glass on the bar. Bucky obliges.

“Thank you,” mutters Leroy, drinking his pint.

Leroy is alone in the bar; it’s too early for Max and the Professor and Joe and all the other regulars. Just Bucky and Leroy.

Leroy has a gauze wrapped around his head, visible underneath the cowboy hat. Despite everything that’s happened since, it’s still only been one week since Leroy was attacked.

They haven’t talked about it. Bucky knows they’re not going to talk about it, either. The intimate conversation they had in Leroy’s hospital room—that was an aberration. Today, they are bartender and customer, nothing more.

Leroy drinks, Bucky polishes pint glasses. The bar grows brighter as the day drags on, as sunlight filters in through the scuffed glass of the windows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed. The next one is going to be a whopper. It's entitled "The First of the Month," so, you know.


	18. The First of the Month

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the first of the month, and Bucky has to pay rent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a bit of a tear-jerker. Enjoy!

“So you have a spot for Trip?” says Bucky into the phone, as Steve kisses down his naked chest, his hands gripping Bucky’s waist. 

“Come  _ on _ , honey,” Bucky whispers to Steve, covering the microphone on his phone with his thumb. “Quit it.”

“Yup,” says Tony on the other end of the line. “I tweaked some things, bumped him to the top of the list for guinea pigs. See if he can’t be free on the fifteenth for a fitting,” he says, cheerfully. 

“Thank you Tony, I really appreciate it,” he says, trying not to gasp as Steve sucks a hickey onto his collarbone.

“Anything, Bucky,” says Tony, warmly. “Remember, you can call me if you need something for yourself as well, not just your friends.”

“I know,” says Bucky, wincing at the sharp graze of Steve’s teeth on his skin. “Thanks, man,” he says, hangs up, and nearly throws the phone across the room. He pulls Steve up; kisses him before pulling back to stare at Steve, a smile creeping over his face. He feels as if his happiness might be a palpable thing, something radiating out of him, cast like whatever the opposite of a shadow is. 

“Mine,” says Steve, with an air of wonder. “You’re all mine.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “You gonna bop me over the head with a club and drag me back to your cave?” he teases, his heart thudding in his chest. 

Steve smiles. “Yup,” he says, and ducks back in for another kiss. 

“I have to go,” Bucky says, finally, when they finally manage to disentangle their limbs. 

“Where are you going, anyway?” asks Steve, rolling onto his back, looking up at Bucky. 

“To work,” says Bucky. 

“Don’t you open at two today?” asks Steve. 

Bucky hesitates. “I have to go somewhere else before then,” he says, pulling on his jeans. 

“Where?” asks Steve, curious. “I mean, you don’t have to tell me,” he says, correcting himself, looking angry at himself for being so nosy. 

“It’s the first of the month, Steve,” says Bucky, after a moment. “I have to go pay rent.”

Steve blanches, and then looks furious. “Fuck that,” he spits out, sitting up. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I do,” says Bucky. “If I want to keep my apartment, I do.” He tugs on his t-shirt. 

“Want me to come with you? Let me come with you,” says Steve, eyes wide. “I don’t want that bastard near you.”

“No,” says Bucky, drawing himself up to his full height. He looks at Steve; a little irritated, despite himself. “I can handle this. I’m just going to give him the cash and leave.”

“Can’t you mail him a check?” asks Steve, despairingly. 

“I don’t exactly have a bank account, Steve,” says Bucky, patiently. 

Steve stares at Bucky for a moment. “I don’t like this,” he says. 

“You don’t have to like it,” says Bucky, and then shakes his head. That came out different than he wanted it to. “This is just something I need to do, okay?” he says, more gently. 

Steve bites his lip. “Just… call me if he tries anything, okay?” asks Steve. “Call me after you drop the money off. Just keep calling me.”

“I will,” says Bucky, looking his boyfriend square in the eye. “Don’t worry. It’s not going to be like last time.”

 

* * *

Bucky’s heart is in his throat as he approaches Rumlow’s office, despite the mollifying words he gave Steve, despite how many times he’s been over this in his head. He takes a deep breath, pushes the door open. 

Rumlow is sitting at his desk, on the phone. He smiles when he sees Bucky come in, his skin stretching over that bony, angular face, and indicates for Bucky to sit down. Bucky looks around—there’s no chair. So he stands, hands folded awkwardly in front of him, and feels uncomfortably aware of the cash bulging in his back pocket. 

“Sorry, Amanda,” says Rumlow into the phone. “Nothing I can do for you. Your sob story, it isn’t worth shit to me. Pay up, or you’re getting your ass thrown out on Friday. How does Christmas at the shelter sound?”

Bucky feels the hair go up on the back of his neck, and says nothing.

Rumlow hangs up, and focuses his attention on Bucky, steepling his fingers. “Bucky,” he says, kindly. “What can I do for you?”

Bucky, not trusting himself to speak, fishes the money out of his back pocket; places it on Rumlow’s desk. Rumlow counts, leisurely. Bucky swallows as Rumlow runs out of bills, frowns; begins to count again. 

_Count it again,_ _motherfucker_ , thinks Bucky, savagely. He knows there’s $840 in Rumlow’s hands. _No fucking blowjobs this month._

“I’m impressed, kid,” says Rumlow, finally. “You showed real initiative this month; kudos.”

“Thanks,” mutters Bucky, ears turning pink. He thinks, briefly about what Steve might do in his situation; something really brave and heroic and possibly violent, and makes a fist. Bucky makes to leave before he does anything that might throw him in jail. 

“I wasn’t finished,” says Rumlow, and Bucky’s stomach drops into his guts. Bucky slowly turns around, glowering at Rumlow. “You will meet me tonight at ten,” says Rumlow, tucking Bucky’s cash into a drawer in his desk. 

“I paid you _ extra _ ,” Bucky spits, furious. 

“If you want a receipt for this month’s rent, you’ll come tonight,” says Rumlow, calmly. “If not, who’s to say this ever happened.”

“You bastard,” says Bucky, enraged. “You fucking asshole.”

“I’m just trying to do you a favor, kid,” says Rumlow, incredibly. His tone is paternalistic; fake-concern slathered all over it. Bucky wonders how he could have ever seen this as anything other than what it was. 

“Give me back my money,” says Bucky, furious. He steps towards Rumlow, threateningly. 

Rumlow smiles at Bucky, indulgently. “I don’t think you want to do anything you might regret, Bucky,” he says, pointing at the camera in the corner of the office. Bucky freezes in his steps, shaking with anger. 

“My money, Brock,” says Bucky, one last time. 

“What money?” says Rumlow, eyes wide with assumed-innocence. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, and stands, stepping towards Bucky. Rumlow is big—how has Bucky never considered how he  _ big  _ he was, before?—maybe as big as Steve. He has at least 40 pounds on Bucky; at least.

Bucky shrinks back, hating himself. 

“Good boy,” says Rumlow, quietly. “Smart boy.” 

Bucky swallows. 

“Clean your shit out by tonight,” says Rumlow, pleasantly. He sits back down, attends to a few papers on his desk. He waves his hand, not looking up—dismissing Bucky. 

There’s a lump in his throat as Bucky closes the door behind himself.  

 

* * *

Bucky takes the shot, the bourbon falling down his throat. He staggers, slightly, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, wincing as cold metal rubs against his chapped lips. 

“You okay there, Bucky?” asks Joe, who is looking at Bucky with something approaching concern. 

“Fine, Joe,” says Bucky, trying very hard to not slur his words. “What do you want to drink?” he asks. 

“Nothing,” says Joe, a little confused. “You got me this beer a minute ago,” and Bucky can see a nearly full pint of lager resting on the bar in front of Joe’s wheelchair. 

“Bucky,” someone calls, and Bucky turns, searching for whoever said his name. 

He sees Leroy gesture at him from the other end of the bar; he goes to him. “You think you should call your friend?” says Leroy, quietly. “The blonde guy?”

Bucky smacks his forehead.  _ Steve _ , he thinks. “I was supposed to call him,” he says, furious with himself. 

“So call him,” says Leroy, simply. “It’s not too late.”

“Okay,” says Bucky. “Okay,” he says again, muttering to himself. 

He fishes his phone out of his back pocket, and notices that Steve had already texted him. He swipes open his phone, and reads.

> _ Everything okay? _

He texts back

> _ no _

He is pouring himself another shot when his phone rings. 

“Bucky, what happened?” says Steve, voice taut with worry. 

“Nothing.” says Bucky, automatically. He rubs his face, palms his jaw. “Actually,” he says, after a moment. “Something.”

“Where are you?” asks Steve.

“I’m working,” says Bucky.

“I’m coming,” says Steve, and hangs up before Bucky can say anything.

 

* * *

Bucky is trying to pour a jack and coke: emphasis on trying. He pulls the bottle up at the wrong moment, and in doing so, pours a liberal amount of whiskey on the counter behind the bar. He walks the drink over to his customer, only spilling it a little in the process.

“Uh, this is mostly Jack, dude,” says the customer, and Bucky looks at him for a second before trying to grab it. 

“I’ll make another,” says Bucky, slurred. 

The customer says something like “it’s fine, don’t worry about it,” and walks away. 

Spent, Bucky slumps over on the bar, head in his hands. 

“Bucky?” 

Bucky looks up, with bleary eyes. Someone is standing in front of the doorway, someone tall. The light coming from outside bleeds around the man, and for a moment, it seems like he’s shining.

“Steve?” says Bucky, squinting. 

“Hey Buck,” says Steve, and he steps forward, into the dim of the bar. 

“You came,” says Bucky. 

“Want to take a break?” asks Steve, and he comes around to Bucky’s side of the bar. He wraps his big hands around Bucky’s shoulders, efficiently steering him out the front door.

Bucky squints in the light, and then sags into Steve, now that they’re away from his regulars, most of whom think he’s straight. He groans, resting his cheek on the meat of Steve’s shoulder muscle.

“What happened, honey?” asks Steve, softly. He’s rubbing soothing circles onto Bucky’s back.

“Nothing good,” says Bucky. 

“Summarize it for me,” says Steve.  

“I need to find a new place to live,” mumbles Bucky. 

“I’m so sorry, Bucky,” says Steve, softly. 

“I didn’t stand up to him, Steve,” says Bucky, and hot tears form in his eyes. They spill over, embarrassingly, while Steve holds him. 

“We can talk about it later,” says Steve. “Do you need to puke?”

“No,” Bucky mutters.

“Well, if you’re not going to puke, I’m calling an Uber to take us home,” says Steve, firmly. 

“It’s only 6 PM,” says Bucky, in despair. “I’m working a double. And it’s a money night, and I  _ really  _ need the—” Bucky chokes on the words, as a sob rises in his throat. He thinks of the nearly $900 sitting in Rumlow’s drawer. 

“You’re sick,” says Steve, stubbornly. “You fell ill halfway through your shift. You can’t be expected to carry it out. Who can you call to take it over?”

“I’m not sick,” says Bucky.  _ I’m shitfaced _ , he thinks, but does not say.  _ There’s a difference. _

“Bucky, who can you call?” asks Steve again, with endless patience. 

“Ali,” says Bucky, head dropping forward. “Anyone else might tell Ivan.”

Steve helps Bucky fish out his phone, stands by patiently while Bucky has a conversation with a very indignant Ali, who nonetheless agrees to take over Bucky’s shift. 

Steve waits with Bucky at the bar for Ali, who thankfully says very little about Bucky’s condition when he arrives. 

They squeeze into the backseat of the Uber, Bucky tucked under Steve’s arm; big and comforting around him. For a brief moment, the world falls away; it’s just him and Steve and  nothing else. He breathes in Steve’s clean scent; lets himself get lost in it.

 

* * *

Bucky blinks, and is immediately made aware of his aching head. The world slides into focus; it is dark in Steve’s bedroom, dimly lit by the single bedside lamp Steve keeps on his desk. Bucky’s is curled into Steve’s side; Steve’s arm is draped around Bucky; he is grading papers. He’s wearing his glasses, Bucky notes as he pulls his head up, as he slowly stretches his limbs. 

“You’re up,” says Steve, smiling at Bucky fondly. 

“Yeah,” says Bucky, looking around the room, stretching his neck in the process. “What time is it?” 

“Around ten,” says Steve. “Here, have some water,” he orders, leaning over and giving Bucky a glass that was resting on the edge of his desk. 

“Sam here?” asks Bucky.

Steve shakes his head. “He’s at the airport, dropping Riley off.”

“Fuck, I didn’t get to say goodbye,” says Bucky, scrunching his eyes. 

“Don’t worry about it, hon,” says Steve, softly. “It’s okay. You’ve got other things going on.”

_ Oh yeah _ , thinks Bucky, grimly, remembering the events of the day; remembering, with shame, how he fell apart the second things got even a little bit tough. Bucky shivers, and Steve tightens his arm around him. Bucky lets himself lay there for a moment, absorbing Steve’s warmth, before pulling away into a sitting position. He drinks his water slowly. 

“Want some dinner?” says Steve, standing up, holding out a hand to Bucky. 

“Sure,” says Bucky. 

Steve makes chicken quesadillas while Bucky sits at the kitchen island, staring at his phone. He knows he has to call Natasha, or at least text her. Let her know he’s taking her up on her offer. He doesn’t want to do that. Even if he was close to agreeing to move in with her before today, he doesn’t like how the decision has been taken out of his hands. 

Bucky looks up; Steve’s been watching him as the quesadillas cook on the stove, and Steve looks away quickly when he’s been caught staring.

“I’m sorry I was so horrible today,” says Bucky. 

“We all have our coping mechanisms,” says Steve, smiling tiredly. “Mine involves going to the gym and hitting large objects until my knuckles bleed.”

“I don’t like you seeing me like that,” says Bucky, quietly. 

“Hey, good and bad, right?” says Steve. “I’m all in, no matter what it means.”

Bucky says nothing, just stares at Steve. “You really… aren’t scared?” he asks, after a moment. “You had to come get me from work, I was so wasted.”

“Course I’m scared,” says Steve, and shrugs. “I know this isn’t going to be easy. I just… I want this more than I’m scared. I love you, and that means something to me.”

Bucky clutches his phone so hard he thinks he’s going to crack it. He looks away, he has to. “You’re a really fucking good person, Steve,” he says, blinking back tears that have come from somewhere. 

“So are you, Bucky,” says Steve. He turns around, busies himself with the quesadillas; whether to give Bucky a moment or himself one, Bucky doesn’t know.

 

* * *

When they finish their quesadillas, Bucky helps with the cleanup, drying dishes that Steve washes, as per usual. 

“Do you work tomorrow?” asks Steve. Tomorrow’s Friday, Bucky realizes. Steve’s day off. 

“Yeah,” says Bucky. “At two.” He had picked up Ali’s afternoon shift as thanks for relieving him today. 

“Want to grab brunch tomorrow before your shift?” asks Steve. “My treat,” he says, quickly. 

“Steve, it’s always your treat,” says Bucky, despairingly. “I can’t let you keep buying me shit.”

“It’s just breakfast,” argues Steve. “Heck, if you really want to, I’ll let you pitch in.”

“I can’t,” says Bucky, and grimaces as the day’s events flood his memory. “I have like, ten dollars to my name right now,” he says. “I paid rent, and I didn’t make any money today.”

“I thought you lost your apartment,” says Steve, frowning. 

“Bastard took my money anyway,” says Bucky, closing his eyes. “Nearly $850. Put it away in his desk and then pretended like I hadn’t given him anything.”

“ _ What? _ ” says Steve, horrified. 

“Yeah, because I wouldn’t fuck him again,” says Bucky. He looks sidelong at Steve, who is frozen, looking at him in abject horror. 

“Jesus Christ,” whispers Steve. 

“It’s okay, Steve,” says Bucky, grasping Steve’s shoulder. “Nothing happened.”

“What a _ fucking asshole _ ,” says Steve, venom in his voice. “No wonder you drank half the bar.”

Bucky barks out a laugh. “Yeah,” he says, “today was a shitty day.”

“What can we do?” says Steve. “What can we fucking do? Can we report him?”

“No,” says Bucky, patiently. “There’s nothing we can do, no one to report him to.”

“I’ll fuck him up, I swear to god, I will,” says Steve, voice hoarse with passion. Bucky looks at Steve; takes in his clenched fists, notices the muscle in his neck that’s jumping in and out. He believes Steve to be capable of great violence right now, and that scares him. 

Bucky turns to Steve, all thoughts of dishes abandoned. “You don’t do a fucking thing to him, do you hear me?” says Bucky, with as much force as he can inject in his voice. The last thing he needed was Steve getting in trouble, over his stupid ass. 

“Goddammit,” Steve chokes. “Can’t you contest the eviction?” he asks, looking at Bucky desperately. 

“No,” says Bucky. “I didn’t have a lease. It was all off the books. He could have done this to me years ago.”

Steve takes a few moments to breathe deeply, then sits down at the kitchen island with a thud. 

“I know,” says Bucky. “It really sucks.”

“When’s he kicking you out?” 

“Technically, I’m out now,” says Bucky. 

“Seriously? He didn’t even give you a chance to get your stuff out?”

“I was supposed to do it today,” says Bucky, sending Steve a sad smile. “I got drunk instead.”

“Fuck,” says Steve, heavily. 

“It’s okay, honestly,” says Bucky. “Clint got most of my stuff out already. I didn’t have much to begin with. I just had a few things left there; things Clint didn’t know about.”

Steve stands up, then. “Come on,” he says, firmly. “We’re going.”

Bucky shakes his head, helplessly. “Steve, they’ve probably changed the locks by now.”

“Even better,” says Steve, and the smile that creeps over his face is positively wicked.

 

* * *

Bucky tries to fit the key into the lock; it won’t fit. “Told you,” he says, stepping back.

“Let me try,” says Steve, and without warning, throws his full weight on the door. 

“Steve!” Bucky hisses, alarmed. 

“Okay, so it’s locked,” says Steve, stepping back from the door and Bucky wants to roll his eyes. Steve takes his wallet of his back pocket, fishes his credit card out. “Don’t tell anyone about this,” he warns, and proceeds to slide the card into the space between the door and the wall. After a few moments of jiggling, Bucky hears a click, and Steve pushes the door in, with a smirk. 

Bucky rolls his eyes at his apparently delinquent boyfriend, and walks into his apartment. He flips the light, illuminating the bedraggled couch, the scuffed coffee table, the discolored patch on the rug where he puked the day after Rumlow happened. He can see the empty bottle of Jim Beam peeking out under the coffee table, and feels shame creep up his spine. 

“So where’s this stuff you forgot?” asks Steve, seemingly unaware of the riot of emotion blooming in Bucky’s gut. 

“Over here,” mutters Bucky, and goes over to the far side of the room; opens the closet door. He stands on his tip-toes, and grabs a small plastic tray on the top shelf of the closet. He pulls out his dog-tags, kisses them, loops the chain around his neck, tucks the tags under his shirt. He takes the photo, and looks at it for a minute, before putting it safely away in his wallet. 

“It’s of my mom,” he tells Steve, who is looking at him, curiously. 

“Oh,” says Steve, softly. 

“She died when I was 13,” says Bucky. “I know there are tons of pictures of her on Facebook and stuff, but this is the only one I have.”

“I’m so sorry, Bucky,” says Steve, and Bucky shrugs.

“Yeah, it fucked me up for a while,” says Bucky. “My dad became real distant after she died. We don’t really talk anymore.”

“I never knew my dad,” admits Steve. “He died when I was a baby. It was just my mom and me, growing up.”

They look at each other, sad smiles on their faces. 

“Wanna get out of here?” asks Steve, and Bucky nods. 

They leave the apartment, and Bucky doesn’t look back as he closes the door behind them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is..... a project. Don't know when it'll be out. Hopefully I've given you enough material to tide you over while you wait!! Come hang out with me on [tumblr](http://bipolarbuckyy.tumblr.com/) and don't forget to comment!

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out with me on [tumblr](http://bipolarbuckyy.tumblr.com). Ask me questions, introduce yourselves -- I love making fandom friends, so don't be shy! Also, I regularly post supplemental material to my fics on tumblr, so there's that little added incentive as well. :p
> 
> (Also, please comment! I love comments! I am fueled by your comments!)


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